Quiet
by Capilotract
Summary: Hermione's long recovery after tragic events, and the repercussions it'll have on her relationship with Minerva. Partly DH compliant.
1. Chapter 1

Grimmauld Place was awfully quiet. Tense none the less, but quiet. The faint light of dying candles barely lit the faces of the Order's members who had all gathered in the kitchen. The younger were leaning back against the walls or pacing like animals in cage, while the older remained sitting, eyes into space. They had waited for weeks like this, wanting, _needing_ something to finally happen. But in the same time, there was the fear of what may come out of it after all, they had already had several losses among their ranks. But this one.. This one would just have been unbearable.

The front door opened, letting a cold breeze in. Footsteps came closer, and eyes lifted themselves when the small outline of Filius Flitwick appeared at the door. The Head of Ravenclaw House who always was cheerful, yet appeared breathless, hagard. He stared at Minerva McGonagall for what seemed to last an eternity, before whispering, with a hoarse voice :

"They found her."

Everybody stayed dumbstruck, not daring to believe the Charms professor. Molly Weasley burst into tears, hugging her daughter, while Harry and Ron felt into each other's arms. Shouts of joy broke the silence, along with relieved sighs. Soon, the younger would pour whisky In the glasses, with shaky hands. They were already making plans on what to buy as "welcome back" present, laughing, singing, intoxicated by the wonderful new. They had found her. That was it: she'd be back any time now. She was alive, _safe._

But Minerva couldn't take part in the celebration. As Filius kept staring at her, merely interrupted by Luna and Neville, who handed him a drink, she understood. She knew, in view of her long time friend, that there was more. Yes indeed, they had found her, but it wasn't it. It wasn't the end, on the contrary. She hardly had the strength to reply, fighting the wave of emotion that was threatening to overpower her:

"Where?"

* * *

Poppy Pomfrey let a tired sigh escape her lips as she opened the heavy door of the hospital wing; down the hallway stood Minerva McGonagall, stiffer than ever. She immediately walked towards her, eyes full of anguish and questions. Before she had the opportunity to speak, the Transfiguration teacher was softly cut by the risen hand of the nurse.

"You can't see her for the time being, Minerva." Seeing the revolted look she was already getting, she added promptly: "I am sorry, but I must insist. Minerva she.. She's in bad shape, really."

"What? Poppy, certainly I.."

"No, you cannot. Trust me, if you could do anything, I would let you in, but for now.." She patted her friend's arm. "you can just wait."

"And you mean I can't even _see_ her?" Her tone was sharp while she tried to contain all the emotions that had been submerging her those last week: fear, anger, despair, the pulsing desire of deathly and cold revenge for those who had taken _her_. Of all the people, it had had to be _her._

"You don't understand." Poppy clenched her teeth, the feeling of utter uselessness smacking in her face. "She is not _seeable_." She took a deep breath to compose herself. "I don't know what happened _there_, Minerva, but.. I truly hope you will find who did.. this."

The Scottish witch opened her mouth, not able to say anything. She felt her heart froze. During the first war with Grindelwald, lot of her friends and herself too, had been interrogated. After some time, she knew the answers didn't matter anymore; it was just fun to them. They tried till the end, till you'd break. She remembered every minute of it, could still feel the metallic taste of blood on her lips, hear her friend's screams slowly turning into a vague mumbling as he was breaking, as his mind just started giving up. Just to imagine what the young Gryffindor had been through..

"Now my dear, go get some sleep. If anything occurs during the night, I'll arrange for the portraits to wake you up."

"Thanks Poppy, I'll.." She stopped for a brief instant, not trusting her voice anymore. "I shall come tomorrow. Goodnight."

The nurse nodded before returning in the sick room, and soon, the Transfiguration teacher was all alone, enveloped by the silence of the night. She covered her face with trembling hands, not able to restrain herself anymore as she let her former student's name crossed her lips, between two sobs. _Hermione._


	2. Chapter 2

Saying she was exhausted was an epic understatement. Minerva had merely dozed off for a few hours, unable to find that restorative sleep Poppy was hoping she'd get. Besides, as the Headmistress of Hogwarts, she had work to do. Sighing at the view of the letters she still had to answer, she leant back in her chair, closing her eyes for a minute. She had not returned to Grimmauld Place last night, not wanting to crush the optimism of Hermione's friends. The Scottish witch knew Harry and Ron felt terribly guilty and hopeless. The trio had been attacked while looking for an item – what exactly, they wouldn't say, and the two boys had escaped only because of the young woman's ingenuity. Apparently, she had somehow managed to throw a portkey at them, while delaying their attackers. One of the Death Eaters had stunned her while she was running towards her friends, the countdown of the portkey already engaged, and the two boys could just witness her body fall on the floor, while they were already taken away in a whirlwind.

"Minerva?"

The soft voice of her friend let a weak smile cross her features. She stood up and went to the tray the house elves had brought up and poured herself a cup of tea.

"I'm fine, Albus." She turned around to face him, exhaustion upon her face. "Oh don't give me that look!" She said exasperated, taking a sip of her tea.

The portrait raised his eyebrows sceptically and seeing his friend wasn't about to add anything, whispered softly:

"My dear, after all this time, I thought you'd know you don't have to hide from _me_." He gave her a small reassuring smile. "Come on! I may be a rambling old fool, but I still happen to know you Minerva. And by the dark rings under your eyes and the paleness of your skin, I venture to tell you're anything but fine."

"Well, you certainly know how to shower a lady with compliments, Albus." she answered with a dry tone.

She took another sip, her eyes lost in the vague. There was a strange comfort to be surrounded by silence. Except for the distant chirping and the ticking of the old clock next to the window, there was no noise. Well, that was without including Dumbledore's sudden cough, as he chocked on a lemon-drop. Minerva rolled her eyes as he was mumbling an apology between two fits of coughing. With a sigh she finished her cup and with a vague wand movement, the tray vanished.

"Dear.." The concerned plea made her shiver. "Please, talk to me."

"And what do you want me to say, Albus?" Her voice was thick with emotions she vainly tried to contain. "That I'm scared to go see her? That the thought of what they might have done to her makes me sick to the point that I'm nauseous?" She closed her burning eyes, not able to look him in the face. "Albus, I'm the one who agreed that they.."

She was abruptly cut.

"Minerva, you are not responsible for what happened." His voice was suddenly determined, almost hard, even though he tried to remain soft. "I know you feel as guilty as the boys, but you are not. She's alive Minerva, _alive_. That's all that should matter right now. So don't be too harsh on yourself dear, I know you were the most dedicated one those last weeks, when it came to search for her and plan rescue missions. I saw you, up all night, barely eating during the day, I.." He stopped, taking a deep breath, before carrying on in a whisper: "Minerva look at me." She did and he felt his heart drop when he saw her eyes. He hadn't seen her in such a distress since.. "Go to her." he managed to say. "You know better than anyone she'll need someone to stay next to her when she wakes up."

She nodded, her lips pinched as she composed herself before heading to the entrance and leaving the office in silence.

"And somehow, I think you need her as well." he murmured for himself, as green robes disappeared.

* * *

The door of the hospital wing had never looked so impressive. Minerva had stopped, her hand on the doorknob, not daring to push it. God knows how many times she had been summoned by Poppy, because a cub of her house had ended up here. Between the Quidditch games and the Weasley, she had witnessed an incalculable number of injured students. Now it would be the exact same thing, except..

"For Merlin's sake Minerva! Pull yourself together!" she hissed at herself before pushing the damn door.

Hermione's bed was in the back of the infirmary, hidden behind curtains. However, she could still distinguish the young woman's figure with the lighting effect. Poppy put the balm she had in hands down, before coming up to the Scottish witch.

"I take it you didn't follow my advice regarding sleeping last night?" she said with a faint smile.

"I did try, Poppy." she answered softly. "How.. is she?"

The nurse opened her mouth, no words coming out. She was aware Minerva hadn't been sleeping for some time now, worried to death, and could see that she still was, even though the young Gryffindor was now safe. She took a deep breath.

"She's.."

What could she possibly say? Never had she received such a damaged case. This was simply beyond imagination, she thought. How was she even alive? And conscious on top of it!

"She's stable."

The Headmistress was about to retort that this was not an answer, but Poppy was quicker:

"Please Minerva, let me finish." she muttered, exhausted herself. "She had several ribs broken, as well as her right leg. Apparently, the ankle must have broke first and with the twist of the leg, the fracture propagated in spiral along the shin and ended up.. well, for a lack of better word: blowing up the knee."

The older witch rubbed her eyes, feeling a pulse of anger rising.

"Go on" she said, trying to remain calm.

"I was able to repair the ribs, but the leg will take more time."

"But she'll be able to walk?"

"Yes, she will. She may limp a bit at the beginning, but nothing to serious hopefully. The broken ribs caused internal bleeding. I was able to stop it, but she'd be better in a hospital; we don't have their equipment nor.."

"I can't risk that, Poppy. It's not safe anymore outside. There was an attack last week; what if they were to return? She wouldn't survive it this time.." she said with a sigh. "Besides, you're the most skilled healer I know: she's in good hands." she added with a smile, earning one as well.

"Never mind, she's stable now this shouldn't be a problem. Her skin is still ecchymosed in places, but this should go given a couple of days, though.."

"What is it?" The nurse bit her lips, knowing Minerva would be furious at the lowest estimate. "Poppy, tell me." she breathed, her heart racing almost painfully against her chest.

"She was tortured, Minerva."

Everything went quiet. The world seemed to have been muted. It felt like water. Water everywhere, absorbing even the slightest sound. Poppy's lips were moving in slow motion. Minerva was staring at her, eyes wide open. She was drowning. She could feel it: the lack of air, being short of breath and the cold, ripping her apart. She was sagging at the knees, and had to lean on the closest bed in order not to fall. Her legs, her fingers, everything felt so numb suddenly.

".. right? Minerva, are you alright?"

She emerged. She didn't know how, but she did. Still overcome by emotion, she articulated slowly, forcing the words to cross her lips:

"What.. did they..?"

"I don't know, you.. I guess you'll have to ask her. Her back was.. _is.._" she swallowed hard. "She will have scars, some.. some severe scars. Even with the balm, I can't.."

Scars. The word sliced her heart, it seemed to echo. She painfully closed her eyes, her joints turning white as she gripped the edge of the bed a little tighter. Her student. Her star student. _Hermione.._

"She.." Her voice was hoarse and quavered when she broke the silence. She took a deep breath and stood up straight, regaining control. She was _professor_ McGonagall, after all, and the Headmistress: she couldn't afford to break down. "She'll get through it. It will take time but.." She forced a smile. "if I managed back in my day, she will too."

The nurse nodded, hoping she was right. She started to walk towards Hermione's bed, Minerva following her.

"I still need to apply some balm on her back." she quietly explained, taking the small jar.

"Oh. Well I can come back later if.."

"No actually Minerva I think it would be better if you stayed." She replied softly. "It will be painful. Having someone to hold your hand helps."

"Yes, of course."

"Now miss Granger," she said, walking around the bed. "I have to apply some balm on your back to disinfect and heal your wounds."

The girl was lying on her side, unresponsive. Her nightdress was slightly opened in the back, to allow medical attention. Her hands were trembling, even though she tried to steady them by squeezing the sheets. The skin was bruised and partially covered by reddish bandages that looked soaked already.

"It will hurt, so.."

She closed her eyes. Every fibre of her body was on fire, every muscle was sore, of course it would hurt. It hadn't stopped to hurt since..

"Professor McGonagall came to visit you and I asked her to hold your hand."

There was a small change in her posture; somehow, she seemed to be tenser. She forced herself to keep her breathing slow, while her brain was processing the information. McGonagall. Here. To visit her. To hold her hand. Ok now, don't.. No don't start hyperventilate. Remember: inhale, exhale, inhale..

She didn't respond anything, not really knowing what to say. Not sure she could still talk without her voice breaking. They had silenced her. It went so far that the slightest word she uttered would cause her to retch in anticipation of either the shouts or the kicks she'd get as an answer for the last weeks. She felt empty, weak. At the beginning she had tried to resist, to find a way to escape; she was the brain of the trio after all, wasn't she? But soon she'd given up. She just waited for it to end, in one way or another. And now that it was over, she started to realize that it was just the beginning to another fight: the recovery. And honestly, she wasn't sure she was able to face it.

Her body was a trap, a prison. It had felt so useless, so powerless! It was weak, she thought. If it had been capable to withstand a little longer, maybe she wouldn't feel so screwed up right now. She was lucid: nightmares and insomnia were not a sign of mental health. She couldn't think clearly anymore, like it was foggy all the time. She had flashbacks to everything that happened. Even Luna is saner than me, she concluded, giving a mental forced laugh.

Long and elegant hands took hers with such thoughtfulness it almost felt like a caress. She couldn't help but shiver, partly because any physical contact had turned into something scary, partly because..

"I'm sorry, it'll be over at once." the nurse murmured hurriedly, speeding up.

Hermione gave a gasp of pain when the balm touched her skin. Her hand tightened as the buried her face in the pillow, not daring to look at her mentor. She was scared, terrified in fact, of what she may see in her eyes: would there be deception? pity? or maybe just nothing, as she was a student among others, nothing more. Though I wish I was, she mentally sighed.

At the view of the young Gryffindor curling up from pain, Minerva froze. She knew there was nothing to be said. She had been in place of her star student, decades ago. Saying that "it's okay" was useless. Because it wasn't. The pain wasn't okay and all the sweet words she could find wouldn't take it away. She could just be there, gently stroking her hand, and bring a reassuring presence. Silence was enough sometimes.

She had seen her share of injured friends, between the war against Grindelwald and Voldemort, but nothing had really prepared her to this. The deep wounds, the multiple bruises, the black eye, the death rattle that escaped contused lips.. But how could she ever have thought that the hardest part to endure, would be to witness her protégée kept looking away from her?

A.N: _Thanks for the reviews! To answer a question I got about the first chapter, when Poppy says "she's not seeable", it was meant to say it was not pretty, that Hermione was too injured to been seen. (As English is not my mother tongue, I apologize in advance if I translate expressions a bit to literally and it doesn't make sense! ^^')_


	3. Chapter 3

A week had past since Hermione's admission to Hogwarts infirmary. If during the last Order's meeting, the Headmistress had explained that no visits would be allowed for the time being, as Hermione was completely worn out, she had agreed for Harry and Ron to drop in. They had taken some sweets with them — half of it soon disappearing in the nervous mouth of the redhead, and a collection of wizards' short stories.

Thanks to Poppy's dedication, the young woman was already feeling better. The bruises were all gone now; the cuts, even the ones on her back, were slowly healing; the broken ribs had been repaired, and even though she still had troubles breathing without sounding like an eighty years old asthmatic lady, it was far easier, and almost painless. Her right leg was still a bit swollen and the muscles were sore and aching, but Poppy had assured her she'd soon be allowed to put weight on it. In the meantime, the nurse would just massage it to ease the recovery process.

Hermione passed shaky fingers on the cover of the book: it was rough to the touch, and the crimson colour had faded. She wondered where they might have found this gem, while carefully opening it. She smelt the pages, eyes half-closed, earning fond smiles from the two boys. They had always teased her about her unconditional love for books, and how they would fight to be her best man at her wedding with "Hogwarts: A History". She lifted her head, staring at them in silence, unable to thank them as she desperately wanted. The look on her face was enough though, as Harry promptly whispered that there was not need to thank them.

While Ron seemed to busy stuffing himself with chocolate frogs and rambling about the latest Chudley Cannons' results — the mouth full of course, Harry frowned as he noticed her friend's unease. He studied her face for a long moment, remaining silent – For Merlin's sake, would Ron ever stop talking?! He sighed, the ginger obviously lost in his quest to diabetes, and waved his wand, earning a surprised look from Hermione as a small notebook and a pencil appeared in front of her.

"You don't need to speak Hermione, it's ok."

His voice was soft and soothing, as his gesture when he gently stoked her arm. It would be lying to say it didn't hurt him to see his best friend moving away, but he knew she couldn't help it. She needed time not only to recover from her wounds, but also to get over the nightmares, the fear. As a friend, he could only wait around for a brain wave. He smiled, feeling his throat burning as Hermione's watery eyes remained fixed on him, like a silent plea.

"Well, I guess we ought to go before Ron eats all your chocolate frogs," he said standing up, chuckling at Ron's offended look. He gave a last smile at Hermione, kissing her on the cheek. "Please be sure to rest, ok? We'll come back soon, I promise."

She nodded faintly, giving both boys a tired smile and a feeble sign with her hand, before they started leaving. Crossing the door, Harry stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, immediately frowning at the weird sensation. He took a small piece of paper out of it, beaming at it. A simple "Thanks" was written on it, with Hermione's handwriting recognisable anywhere.

* * *

_The cellar smelt like pee. Pee, fear and mould. Shrouded in total darkness, the size of the room was difficult to estimate. Hermione had tried to mentally map her gaol, but the repetitive structure made it impossible. If she had had even the smallest light, maybe she would have been able to find some landmarks, but for now she could just walk, a hand resting on the wall next to her, as she truly realised the gargantuan size of the jail. The floor was wet – water, she hoped, and every step resonated with a gloomy echo. Her sneakers, as well as the bottom of her jeans were soaked, causing her to shiver. God she hated the feeling of wet socks gluing to her feet!_

_"Ok think Hermione, _think._ This must be a — hiiii! OHGODWHATWASTHAT?!" She jumped out of her skin as something brushed her leg. She tried to locate the source of the noise, but she was completely disoriented. Cold sweat was running down her spine, giving her goose bumps. Her heart started to accelerate, pulsating with such strength against her chest she thought it would burst open. She was suddenly very cold, rooted on the spot, with the awful sensation something was about to happen and she wouldn't be able to escape it, because her bones were frozen, her muscles paralysed, and her mind, running at full speed, would just shut down from either stress or exhaustion._

_The young Gryffindor was out of breath. She bent, swaying as a violent punch in the stomach had left her breathless. She gagged, feeling a strong nausea on top of it. Blinking, she vainly tried to distinguish her attacker, before another blow knocked her out._

"Miss! Miss!"

She woke with a start, dripping with sweat, her eyes wide-open questioning the house elf who was standing next to her bed, gently stroking her arm.

"You had a nightmare," she calmly stated, her protruding eyes staring at the young witch in search of any remnant of discomfort. "You were trashing about and screaming," she showed the tray she was holding, adding with a chuckle: "Almost made me drop this. Would be a shame: such good tea. And the mistress asked me to put ginger newts on it too."

Hermione took a moment to gather her wits, before quickly scribbling on the notebook Harry had given her prior. _The mistress?_

Hazel, the house elf, smiled when she saw the note. She put the tray down, and stated while brewing the tea:

"Professor McGonagall, of course."

They had said this girl was quite sharp and quick-witted, but the little elf had doubts, seeing the lack of understanding in the student's eyes. Not that she didn't trust the mistress' judgment but…

"How do you take your tea? Black or white?"

Scribble. Nod.

"And sugar?"

Scribble. Smile.

"Sweet tooth. The mistress does too, even though she'll never admit it." She stopped for a sec: "Don't tell her I said it to you."

A very light chuckle crossed her lips, along with an amused grin, as Hermione took the teacup from Hazel's hands. She knew her Transfiguration Teacher _liked_ this stiff and severe reputation of her much more than she would ever admit to. The elf seemed to have noticed her character traits and liked to make fun of the image Minerva cultivated.

"The ginger newts are the only flaw she let people see. And still: not everybody has got this honour," she added with a deadpan voice, emphasizing the last word.

The young scholar chocked on her tea with the last comment, spitting it all over the bed as she burst into a generous belly laugh. God it felt _good_, she thought, to forget about the pain, about the reminders she wore on her skin. Her sides were still a bit sore and laughing didn't help, but the slight pain didn't matter right now. Now, she was elsewhere, not trapped in her mind anymore. She felt light, and somehow, peaceful. Hazel beheld the change with an approbatory nod. She cleaned and dried the sheets with a snap of the fingers, before pointing out the notebook as she sat on the edge of the bed.

"You should get rid of it you know? It makes you look like one of those half-witted damsels which starve themselves for the Yule Bal, end up at the infirmary because we cannot bring them to eat anything, and don't communicate with anyone but by writing." She took a biscuit, pursuing regardless of Hermione's flabbergasted face. "Verbal resistance is futile." She slipped out of the bed. "Besides, I would love to hear your voice: I'm sure it's very soft."

Wait… What? The Gryffindor stayed open-mouthed, not quite believing what she just had heard. Much to her surprised, she heard herself stutter with a hoarse voice.

"I… Thanks."

Hazel smiled kindly.

"You're very welcome, miss. I'm quite happy to see that, like the mistress, I still have this annoying habit of always be right."

And with a "pop", she was gone.

* * *

"Pomona my dear, where did you put the sugar?"

"On the top shelf, you can't miss it!"

Minerva was sitting on a large sofa, a light smirk on the lips as she witness the exchange between her two friends. Filius and Pomona made one of the sweetest couple she knew and their sallies were refreshing.

"Oh all right I see it," came the squeaking voice of the Charms professor.

The two women smiled at each other, discussing school matters. It was not rare for the three of them to meet for a tea in one's quarters. It was way cosier than the teachers' room, where they tend to be substantially interrupted by students.

The conversation between the two women stopped short when the din of a chair falling was to be heard. They had not the time to ask Filius if everything was ok, his voice already answering:

"Now come on you —"

Another smash.

"_Rosie_," he warned with a loud voice. "Back off! THOSE ARE NOT FOR YOU!"

The two witches sniggered, soon laughing until they cried as they saw the little man in the doorway, a jar of sugar in hand, his wand in the other, and a sleeve of his robe torn, lolling pitifully, with large leaves and prickles stuck in it.

"Yeah, very funny you two," he said, feigning to be offended. "Pomona," he turned to his wife. "When will you _finally_ dump this… thing?"

"Dump it? Are you out of your mind Filius? Rosie is a part of the quarters!"

"As I could see."

The gigantic rosebush had indeed invaded most of the kitchen, and only Pomona Sprout seemed to be able to get it to behave.

"Come on, don't be such a spoilsport: she likes you, you know that," said the Herbology teacher with a large smile. "Ask Minerva!"

They both turned to her, eyebrows raised.

"You cannot seriously hope I'm getting into this," she retorted, half amused half serious, "right?" she added, false worry in her voice. She sighed, as they were obviously quite serious indeed. "Well — Pomona, although I truly admire your work with…" What was it, truly, except madness? "Let's say transgenic herbology," Madness. Complete madness. "I think Rosie is getting quite —" Why had she even accepted their invitation for tea? Even _Cuckoo-Trelawney_ could have foreseen it would irremediably turn into that kind of argument. "— out of hand." That comment earned her a shocked look from the Hufflepuff. "You have to admit the frontier between Rosie playing with Filius and Rosie playing_ with _Filius is rather thin." She could see him mime a "thank you" behind Pomona's back. "I don't know, did you…" she cleared her throat, "Have you tried to maybe keep it on a leash?"

* * *

"Well, thanks again for the tea, but I ought to go: I still have a copious amount of mail to answer, and I wanted to go check on miss Granger."

"Hazel told us she was out of her mutism? That's some good news! She looked so… numb."

The Scottish witch smiled, relief visible in her eyes. She had been afraid the young Gryffindor would keep becoming estranged from her friends – and her. She wanted to let her the time to go at her pace, but the young girl needed a little push not to sink into dark thoughts.

"I must say Hazel surprised me with this. I'm glad it worked: I was starting to worry about the young girl's sanity."

"Well, you two have always been quite close; if not for Hazel's persistence, she'd have started talking again thanks to you." softly did Filius with a pleasant smile. "The girl trusts you, Minerva. I know you feel responsible for what happen to her but I'm sure she doesn't hold it against you."

"Let's hope you're right my friend," she answered. "Now, I don't want to be rude but I've really got to go. Filius, Pomona," she nodded. "I bid you a goodnight."

* * *

Hogwarts' corridors were bathed in the trembling light of the numerous candles, when a small tabby cat appeared around a corner, trotting on a light step. The animagus liked the feeling of cold marble on her paws and couldn't help but purr a little. She arrived at the hospital wing and sneaked without a noise in the half open door. She approached the young girl's bed, mentally smiling as she noticed the book on the bedside table: it was nearly finished already, as she could see it with the bookmark.

To Minerva's surprise, Hermione's breathing was calm and steady. Hazel and Poppy had told her about the rude awakenings of the girl they had witnessed. She would wake up sweating, pale and haggard, completely lost, and it often took several minutes before she realised where she was. They must have given her a sleeping draught, she thought. She stretched a bit, jumping on the chair next to the bed, not quite daring to crease the sheets that enveloped her student's body.

The two green eyes stared at her features, mind elsewhere. All of a sudden, the cat tensed up, the realisation of what she was doing striking her. She is a _student_! she hissed at her own foolishness, a _student_, Minerva! What was she thinking, really? Of course it must just have been some kind of — she was tired, that was all. She just cared for the girl. Never would she act upon her — Wait! Had she just thought _feelings_? Oh no, no, _no_. This would not — this _cannot_ be happening! If she could have blushed in her animagus form, surely her fur would have turned scarlet. Ok now retreat, _retreat_! Just LEAVE!

And leave she did, running back to her quarters. The door closed behind her, as she sunk week-kneed into a large armchair. "Hazel", she breathed. The house elf appeared with a "pop", a big smile on the lips, which disappeared as soon as she saw Minerva's ashen face.

"Mistress?"

The old witch passed a hand over her face, obviously troubled.

"Whisky," she croaked. "Please."

"Mistress, you —" she bit her lips. "Is everything alright?"

The Transfiguration teacher looked at the elf in disbelief, not really catching what she was saying. "You needn't worry, Hazel," she finally managed to say. "I just need to —" she forced herself to smile, not wanting to worry the elf any longer. "— get a grip on myself. I think that depicts the situation quite well."

She sighed and took her glasses off. Merlin, she should ask for a sleeping draught as well, she thought.

"Now would you be so kind as to bring me a glass of whisky?"

* * *

_A.N: Thanks for the reviews, and especially to Thisissocliche for the help with my English! ^^ I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well, I really had fun writing it. Tell me what you thought of this chapter, and if you any suggestion/request, I'd be glad to listen to it! :)_


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione closed the small book she had received from his friends with a smile. As she had been bullied for most of her Hogwarts' years by Malfoy and his two gorillas about the fact she was a muggle-born, she liked to learn more about wizard folklore, which was certainly the only subject where Ron beat her. This, Quidditch and chess, even though she was getting quite good with the last. She put the small book on her bed table, glancing at the presents she had got from friends and teachers. There was a magic _Strelitzia reginae_, which shrieked with laughter when one petted its stem or leaves, given by Sprout; a jiving set of cupcakes enchanted by Flitwick; Mrs. Weasley had knitted her a umpteenth pullover, too broad on the shoulders and with extremely long sleeves, not forgetting a huge "H" that spread on the front; she had received a great deal of sweets, and a curious necklace from Luna, made out of garlic and fragrant plants she had been unable to identify, which was supposed to protect her from snorkacks — or whatever it was, she couldn't remember. Neville had forgot to take her present with him, but he promised he would bring it next time he stopped by. Nobody was surprised by the boy's clumsiness and it had become a running joke among the Order.

A light "pop" was to be heard, as Hazel appeared next to the young girl's bed, a tray in hands. The house-elf and the witch got along quite wonderfully, as the little creature had the same dry humour as Minerva — which Hermione had always found very funny, and as the Gryffindor was kind, a quality not often seen in wizards when it came to deal with magic species. The girl somehow reminded Hazel of her present employer. She couldn't explain why; maybe the eagerness to learn and do their best, the intransigence on themselves, or just the look one would give the other while she was looking elsewhere. But Hazel had seen it, oh yes she had. A bit disconcerted at the beginning — after all, the mistress hadn't seemed up to take any love interest for the past decades — she had found herself liking the idea of the two witches getting on together.

"I brought you some cinnamon tea," she said, smiling as she saw the pile of presents that was threatening to fall from the bed table. "Maybe I'm better leaving this on the chair. Here you go."

"Thank you Hazel." She took the cup, coughing a little while bending to do so. "Please, help yourself," she added, noticing the greenish-brown eyes fixed upon the dancing cupcakes. "They're rather good."

A sheepish grin rose on the house elf's lips as she whispered a faint _Thanks_, carefully taking one of the cupcakes in her hands. She took a bite, eyes closed in appreciation:

"Rather good indeed! I daresay the jive gives them a little plus."

The witch approved, taking a sip of her tea. She had always believed the wizarding world didn't gave elves enough credit, but Hazel surely was one of a kind. Although Dobby was quite well-spoken already, he was nothing like Hazel. Somehow, she seemed more educated than most of Hermione's classmates would ever have been, which amazed the girl. Her clothes completed the character, as the elf didn't wear one of those old dusty cloth or an odd matching of patches, but what looked like a tiny toga. The Gryffindor didn't know what material had been used, but she would have sworn the Prussian blue fabric was velvet.

"I guess I should thank you," Hermione began, looking tenderly at the little figure. "For the wand," she added. "I believe I'm correct when I say it is you who got rid of the scratches and the blood on it?"

A flash of comprehension passed in the eyes of the house-elf.

"You needn't thanking _me_, but rather the mistress: she was the one to take matter in hand. I just helped her doing so, as she's quite busy at the moment."

"She —"

"She was very worried, you know," said Hazel, scanning Hermione's face as she did. "— while you were… away."

The student remained silent, not quite sure what she was expected to respond to that. The elf didn't seem to be offended by the lack of answer, carrying on as if nothing were wrong:

"She felt — and obviously still does — terribly guilty about it. Your friends too, the ginger and the four-eyed. But you certainly know how the Headmistress cannot accept not only others' failures but hers as well, don't you? She feels responsible for what happened and…"

"But she isn't," said Hermione, moving so brusquely she almost spilled some tea. "She isn't responsible for what happened; it wasn't her idea and if I remember correctly, she fought it quite vehemently before finally give in."

"Well, the fact remains that she wanted to help you, somehow, and when she saw the state of your wand, she managed to have it repaired," she quickly stated. "Now," a wide smile crossed her lips, "I believe Mrs. Pomfrey wanted you to try to walk again today."

"Walk?"

"Well, this is maybe a strong word; let's rather say she wants to see if the bones hold together as you stand up."

"You surely know how to reassure someone, Hazel," she said with a hint of sarcasm. "And what if it _doesn't_ hold?"

"I think there's an old wheelchair in Filch's office," she began, cut by the girl's shocked voice.

"Hazel!"

"True it is a bit _rusty_, but I'm positive that with a bit of elbow grease —"

"_Hazel!" _barked the stiff voice of McGonagall, causing both the young witch and the elf to jump. "Will you please stop tormenting that poor girl," she snapped, her emerald eyes flashing ominously. "Don't you think she's upset enough already?"

The elf was about to retort something, even though she could sense the fear mute her voice, as the slender witch came dangerously quickly towards her, like a bull charging, her green robes fluttering behind her.

"…"

The flashing glasses silenced the comment she was about to make.

"Now off you go. I believe you have work to do."

"But I —"

"_Hazel_," warned Minerva.

The house-elf pouted and disappeared with a snap of fingers. The older witch sighed, turning to Hermione. "I'm sorry my dear. She hasn't got a nasty streak but rather a fling with teasing people." She smiled tenderly at the younger, her eyes darting at the ginger newts plate. "May I?"

"By all means professor."

The student tried not to smirk at the sight of the severe woman, yet enjoying the biscuit with eyes half-closed, nearly moaning from pleasure. She glanced discretely at her mentor's face, her eyes inevitably wandering over her robes, then staring at her hands; her eyes were sparkling. _God she had dreamt of those elegant hands, smoothly moving towards her —_

"Miss Granger, are you alright?" asked the Headmistress. "Miss Granger?"

Hermione, lost in a daydream, didn't answered at once. When she realised the Head of her house was staring at her with a mixture of concern and exasperation, waiting for her to respond, she blushed furiously.

"I —", she stuttered. "Fine, thanks." she said with an embarrassed smile. "Merely lost in thoughts, that's all."

The older witch peered amused over her glasses at the student.

"Good ones, I hope?"

_She liked this way to much, oh Merlin she did!_ The pink on Hermione's cheeks and her faint smile, that was something already. But to be the cause of it was simply priceless.

"Very good ones, actually," she said hastily, causing Minerva to smirk even more.

She nodded and walked to the bed table, not wanting to embarrass her protégée furthermore. She looked at the presents that were lying on it, letting time for the girl to compose herself as she did so. She smiled at the sight of the jiving cupcakes; she had received some from Filius, a long time ago. She didn't dare to touch the _Strelitzia reginae_ although, after what she had witnessed in Filius and Pomona's quarters. She had never been so found of Herbology anyway.

"I see Honeydukes has been robbed," she said regarding the copious amount of sweets that was threatening to spill all over the floor. There were pepper imps, chocolate frogs, fizzing whizzbees, sugar quills, liquorice wands and more; it looked like Dumbledore's idea of paradise, thought the Scottish teacher with a tender smile. "Sweet tooth?" she softly asked, turning back to her pupil.

"Well, it would seem I'm not the only one, professor," she retorted with a smirk.

Minerva stared at her for a moment, surprised by the sudden boldness of the young lady, but also by the statement itself.

"Hazel," she grumbled. "I'll need to find her more work to do."

"Oh please don't be too harsh on her; she was just trying to get me to talk again."

"Well, I'm glad she succeeded at any rate."

She had indeed feared the brunette would remain catatonic when she had first saw her, lying unresponsive on the bed. She knew too well how easily one's mind could be broken by the middle-aged methods of interrogation the young girl had obviously suffered. And just to think she could have never heard her pupil call her again, even if it was only with the respectful "professor" she used, she felt her heart sink. She wondered how it would feel to hear her name _moaned_ by those lips; certainly there would be a weird pleasure, she thought, closing her eyes as the whisper would caress her skin. _Merlin_.

"Madam Pomfrey informed me she'd try to get you out of this bed today," she said, looking for a way out of her thoughts.

"As I heard, but I must say I'm quite scared at the idea the bones might somehow break again."

The Headmistress nodded.

"Of course. How? —" she said, carefully.

"I can't." Hermione's confession seemed to have burned her tongue while she uttered it. "I can't speak of it — maybe later, but not yet."

Minerva didn't respond anything, to busy bullying herself for her silliness. What was she thinking? Of course the girl wasn't ready to —

"It seems I'm not so worthy of Gryffindor's bravery after all", stated the young witch, looking away from her mentor.

The latter stared at her pupil, eyes wide open. The painful chuckle that had escaped the young lips had carved her heart.

"Hermione", she whispered with her softest voice. "Dear look at me", she added, still thoughtful, but with the impressive tone she used in her Transfiguration classes. She faintly smiled as the student obeyed shyly. "You _are_ worthy, Hermione. You're the bravest and cleverest young woman I've ever had the chance to meet." She gently brushed her cheek, noticing with a guilty pleasure the blush that quickly covered them. "No more of this nonsense with me, alright?" Hermione nodded, her head curling up in her mentor's hand. "Now, let me go fetch Madam Pomfrey. I daresay she was quite impatient to see the miracles of her new Skele-Gro potion."

After a moment passed in the silence of the infirmary, Hermione heard the door creak as the nurse entered, followed by Minerva. Madam Pomfrey looked so thrilled it was almost scary.

"Ah! Miss Granger! Well awake I can see! Let me check your vitals before looking at that leg, shall we?" she said enthusiastically. She muttered several "Ok" and "Good" while scanning the remaining wounds. "Your back is healing quicker than I thought it would, considering that —" she cleared her throat "— that it was quite a mess, if you don't mind my saying so."

Hermione shook her head, not quite sure what to answer. She could have guessed her back had been severely injured and not really pleasant to look at. In fact, she could still hear the air cracking as her flesh was cut by the —

"How is your breathing?"

The question took her out of her thoughts, thankfully.

"Better", she said with a smile. "I'm still a bit short of breath, but it almost doesn't wheeze anymore."

"Good. Now the leg," said the nurse, pushing the sheets aside. "The bruises are gone, the bones seem to be aligned…" She did some quick wand movements, nodding at the results she alone was able to see. "That looks good," she finally said with a beam. "Remember: your muscles are still wasted; so try to remain steady with your left leg and carefully put some weight on the right. Here, give it a try."

Hermione slides off the bed, a shiver running along her spine as her toes touched the cold floor. She stood up, resting on her left leg, not quite trusting the right one. That's ok, she thought, I can manage standing. She looked at the two older witches with a smile; Madam Pomfrey looked so excited it would not have surprised her if she ended up fainting, and McGonagall was rigid as usual, a mixture of relief and anguish floating in her eyes.

"How does it feel?" inquired the nurse, doing her best not to let her over excitement show.

"It feels —"

She wanted to say _unsafe_, because she knew her leg would somehow fail her, but at the sight of the healer, who seemed to be on the edge of dying from her ferment, she stopped herself, not wanting to crush the nurse's joy.

"— good. It feels good. Thanks to you, Madam Pomfrey," she said kindly.

"Perfect! Perfect! Wow! That's a relief, isn't it?" said the nurse, hastily. "The re-education will be a matter of weeks, I believe. The bones' structure looks good, you only have to get your muscles and joints used to move again. Now, if you would please try…"

She stepped aside, as Hermione took one step forward. It was a weird sensation, to feel the muscles tense up and the joints stretch. Her brain was working as fast as it could, trying to remember _how _to walk. She was able to take three steps, before having her knees like jelly and feeling her right leg becoming numb. She lost her balance, caught just in time by her mentor. She gazed at her, embarrassment colouring her cheeks as she was already stammering an apology.

"No need to apologize, dear," she breathed softly in Hermione's ear, "not for that."

"I —"

What was she about to say? The young Gryffindor couldn't even remember. Mesmerised by the the two strong but yet so gentle hands that held her; the soothing emerald gaze that devoured her to the soul; the intoxicating perfume of her mentor, which made her feel even more dizzy, she couldn't think anymore.

"Don't forget to breath, _miss Granger_," she purred with a smirk, feeling the girl shiver in response.

"_Hum Hum_."

Hermione jumped back on her feet, blushing furiously. For a moment, she had completely forgot about the nurse, and despite everything Madam Pomfrey had done for her those past few weeks, she couldn't help but mentally curse her for ruining this moment. She was already missing the touch of her professor, still a bit spellbound by the souvenir of her refreshing scent.

For her part, Minerva had already hexed the nurse at least ten times in her head. She was standing up straight; so straight in fact, that it looked like she had a plank stuck against her back, under her robes. Her nostrils were flared, as she sniffed abruptly, obviously exasperated.

"Well," she snapped, her teeth so clenched she seemed to have lockjaw, "I still have work to do. Poppy, I believe congratulations are in order for your improved Skele-Grow potion."

Even though the felicitations were sincere, the Transfiguration teacher's voice was so stiff it was difficult not to look at her with astonished eyes.

"Although I may suggest you provide the girl with a walking cane."

"Well, I —" the nurse began, immediately cut by the Headmistress.

"Poppy, Hermione," she said straightening her robes. "Good day."

And with that she was gone, leaving the two other witches dumbstruck. Hermione sat on the bed, still transported by the way it had feel to be held by the woman she admired — loved — so much. Lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear the nurse walk away and come back with a walking stick. She had been afraid she'd have to ambulate with some muggle device that were found in retirement homes, but this one was simple and discreet, she thought with a smile.

"I believe this should do the trick," said the nurse, handing her the cane. "Don't force on your leg, though," a faint smile crossed her face, "you are _still_ recovering."

The nurse left her, heading back to her office, perfectly aware that the girl would not listen to her and try to get rid of the stick as soon as possible. She opened the door with a sigh, shaking her head.

"Those Gryffindors!"

* * *

_A.N: Hope you liked this one ;) I myself can hardly wait for Minerva and Hermione getting closer ^^_


	5. Chapter 5

_A.N: This chapter is shorter than the last ones, but I'm sick so... be indulgent ;) Thanks for the reviews, I really appreciate to know what you think!_

* * *

_"She will talk… eventually."_

Her eyes remained closed, her eyelids becoming almost painful as she did so. She _had_ to sleep, to rest. This was just a nightmare, another; she'd get used to them, giving some time.

The words seemed to echo in the infirmary, buzzing in her ears as she did her best to steady her breathing. She remembered everything that had preceded and followed that sentence. The nightmares looked so real, she sometimes still _felt_ them.

"Come on, _sleep_," she whispered, "just try to relax and think of nice things..."

Taking a deep breath, she couldn't help but smile at the images crossing her mind.

"Well, maybe just go with the relaxing part."

A pause.

"God, I'm talking to myself. Aloud."

She chuckled at her own silliness; maybe she should have worn that necklace Luna had given her. Who knows? Perhaps she had caught some of those sibylline wrackspurts and —

"Okay, that's just ridiculous," she said, curling up into her bed.

And soon, she was taken in the arms of Morpheus.

* * *

Hermione woke up early. She had always been an early bird, but mostly because she wanted to have more time to learn or revise her classes. Now, she couldn't stay asleep too long anymore, the nightmares irrevocably coming back; she would just awake more tired than the previous day.

"Up already?"

The strangled gasp broke the silence of the room, letting an amused smile on the student's lips.

"Hazel," she softly greeted. "Good morning."

"Good morning," she responded with a furred tongue.

She drew the curtains and opened several windows, letting a cold breeze tickle her face as she did. She stood there a moment, enjoying the view. The house elf liked to watch the sun slowly capture the different features of Hogwarts with its sunbeams: the Black Lake and the grass, beaded with dew, would scintillate; the whomping willow always stretched, occasionally knocking a bird off during the process; the castle itself seemed to wake up with the sunlight, as the ghosts and portraits would start their day, wandering around and chatting.

"You do realise of course," she said, turning back to Hermione, "that you and the mistress will be the death of me?"

"That early?"

"It's not even five."

The Gryffindor's eyebrows rose in surprise as she went on:

"And the mis — I mean professor McGonagall, she's… up as well?"

The elf sighed, looking at Hermione with an amused and disbelieving smile, like she was some kind of unexpected distraction put in front of her.

"I hope this was purely rhetorical," she said finally, smirking. "Now, shall I make some tea?"

"That would be great, Hazel. Thanks." She sat up , biting her lips as a sudden thought crossed her mind. "Oh! And Hazel?" The elf turned around with questioning eyes. "Would you mind going to Grimmauld Place for me? I believe my clothes must still be there and I cannot take this nightdress any longer. But if you don't have the time, I can —"

"No miss, it's quite alright," she said quietly. "Despite what the mistress pretends, she doesn't give me that much work," she added with a wink, disappearing with the usual "pop" sound.

Twenty minutes later, she was back, proudly heading a small package at Hermione. Grimmauld Place was weird, she didn't really like going there; to pass by the elves' heads put up on the wall, and hear grunts coming from paintings covered by old and dusty curtains, made her little body shiver. But she liked the girl, and the mistress seemed to like her as well: that was enough for Hazel.

"Oh! My… school uniform," said the Gryffindor, unpacking the clothes.

"Is this not the clothes you wanted, miss?"

The elf's voice was worried, her body already tensed. The witch saw it and refrained her previous disappointment: after all, it fit her well.

"I'm just surprised you found them," she lied. "I thought I had let them at —"

_Home._ The word had a bitter taste on her tongue, as it was painfully linked to another word, more specifically a spell. _Obliviate._

"— Never mind. It's perfect Hazel."

The elf nodded sceptically.

"The breakfast will be ready soon, but you have time to shower. Will you be eating here?"

"Where else would I?"

"I was thinking of the Great Hall, actually."

"The Great —?"

"Really, I'm starting to wonder if Madam Pomfrey didn't miss something while healing you. The Great Hall; I believe you had breakfast, lunch and dinner there for the past six years."

The deadpan tone of the elf left Hermione dumbstruck.

"Well, I guess I might as well go fetch the nurse to check if —"

"No, I…" Hazel was stopped by the witch, who had gently taken her wrist. "I'm just surprised. There aren't any students at the moment, just some teachers," she said, waiting for her little friend to concur before going on. "it would be weird to stand alone at the Gryffindor table, wouldn't it?" she chuckled.

The two protruding eyes glimmered strangely, as the elf whispered:

"But who said you'd be at the Gryffindor table?"

* * *

If she hadn't need a walking stick to ambulate, Hermione would have been pacing right now. Rooted to the spot in front of the huge oak doors of the Great Hall, she couldn't' bring herself to enter. She could walk now, even though she limped, but she couldn't get rid of the stick like she had expected; with it, the pain in her leg was barely tolerable already, but without, it was just foolish to try.

Right, it won't be weird, she thought sardonically. Not weird at all, indeed, to walk through the entire Great Hall with a gait that made Argus Filch look gracious, and beg for a chair at her teachers' table. She was about to walk away, already turning her back on the doors, when she heard them creak as the slowly open.

"Bloody magical castle," she hissed, turning around as she summoned her Gryffindor's courage, not to faint at the sight of her teachers, lifting their heads at the noise.

Oh Merlin, was the hall really that long? It seemed to last an eternity before she finally reached the table with her limping tread. There was an awkward silence, where neither the stunned professors, neither the blushing student knew what to say. Minerva stood up, taking matter in hand.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," she said with a light smile. "Please, come sit with us, miss Granger."

"Thanks professor," she answered smiling as well, greeting the others teachers as she passed close to them.

Walking around the table, the hand clinging on to her cane, she felt her pulse rising as she saw the Headmistress pulling up a chair right next to hers, waiting for her to sit, before gently pushing her towards the table.

"I hope I'm not imposing, though," she whispered.

"Not at all, dear, not at all," responded the older witch in a soft voice, stroking her arms. "Now, what would you like? Coffee, tea?"

"Tea sounds good, thank you."

Minerva nodded, turning towards the little Charms professor.

"Filius, would you be so kind as to give us the tea pot?" she asked, smirking a bit as she added, reckoning with the girl's penchant for sweet things: "And the sugar, please."

The wizard obliged with a squeak before returning to his prior conversation with his wife. The Transfiguration teacher knew her protégée would not dare intruding their discussion and would shyly remain silent. And to be honest, she liked the idea of having the girl for her alone during the entire breakfast.

"I take it your leg feels better?" she asked, pouring some tea.

"It does. Madam Pomfrey asked me not to push though."

"And you refused?" said the dry voice.

"I —" Hermione starred open-mouthed at her mentor, who was peering over her glasses at her with a mischievous look. She had always admired the Scottish witch. She couldn't really explain why, but no other teacher at Hogwarts had never have this effect on her. Not that she didn't respect them, because she did — apart from Trelawney maybe, but McGonagall was impressive. More than anyone she knew. "Well, the hospital wing is not really the most entertaining part of the castle," she began, hesitant. "And walking is almost painless now, so…"

"And what, if you don't mind my asking, is the most… _entertaining_ part of the castle to you, miss Granger?"

The emerald eyes were sparkling with a mixture of teasing and something that made Hermione feel like a prey. Like _her_ prey. She tried to restrain the shiver running along her spine, as her mentor's perfume filled the air between them, the Scottish brogue casting a spell on her mind…

She swallowed hard, forcing herself not to shift her eyes away. Well, she wasn't expecting that.

"I would have gone with the library," she slowly began, "but it is rather the books than the place that has some… appeal." She remembered the countless number of times she had asked Mrs. Pince for some specific book and the old librarian had just stared at her with disdain and exhaustion. "I guess it would be your classroom then, professor."

She tried her best to remain focused and calm, taking a precautious sip of tea as an excuse to look away and compose herself.

Minerva was caught off her guard. Well, she knew the young Gryffindor had never been fond of Quidditch, but the Quidditch pitch would certainly have been the answer of most of the students — but again, Hermione was _not_ most of the students. Her classroom… Not that she wasn't flattered, but the Headmistress couldn't help but wonder why she had chosen _her_ classroom of all.

"Is that so," she said leisurely, a satisfied glint floating in her eyes. "Dare I ask why?"

Hermione could have die. This voice, she thought, this voice is too much. Just too much. The slightest word uttered with this Scottish brogue seemed to echo inside her, to move around her spine in circumvolutions, letting behind it a shiver of delight…

"If you have to ask," she said in a voice that was way more aroused that what she had wished to let show, "you must not have quite noticed the attraction of the place or of its occupants."


	6. Chapter 6

The long quill was scratching the parchment at a steady rate, the curvilinear handwriting of Minerva dancing on the paper. _Transfiguration Today_ had required her services, as they often did, to correct an article about the challenges of research in the field. As the publication had awarded her with several prizes already, such as the _Transfiguration Today Most Promising Newcomer Award_, she was glad to help. And Merlin, it was by far more enjoyable than to answer letters from the Minister. She put the quill away and closed the inkwell, leaning back in her chair for a moment of respite.

"Hazel," she finally said in her voice that betrayed her tiredness.

The house elf appeared immediately, a silver tray in hands. As usual, she put it in front of the window and started to brew the tea and arranger a plate of ginger newts. She turned to face the witch, noticing the pile of letters that accumulated on the desk.

"Would you like me to post them for you?" she asked, heading her the tea-cup.

"That would be greatly appreciated, Hazel," said the witch. "Thanks."

The elf nodded with a light smile.

"Anything else you need, mistress?"

She frowned a bit as she saw the Headmistress fidgeted on her seat with obvious embarrassment. She calmly waited for the witch to speak, giving her a reassuring smile. She had served in the McGonagall family for some time now, and therefore, knew Minerva well. _Too well_ in fact, if you'd ask the witch's opinion on it.

The portraits of the precedent Headmasters and Headmistresses were only half listening to what was discussed, except for one. Albus Dumbledore had even put his box of lemon-drops down, his sparkling blue eyes staring at his friend's back. He could feel that something was bothering the witch by the way she behaved, by the tone of her voice. He too, knew her too well.

"Actually, yes," she said after a long silence. "You've spend quite some time with miss Granger since she arrived —"

"And I'm still waiting for that extra-work you promised me I'd be snowed under with," said the elf, sneering.

"Be careful what you wish for, Hazel. That could be arranged at once." replied the tongue-in-cheek professor, preventing an amused smile to float on her lips. "So," she continued, sitting up straight, "how is the girl doing?"

Albus was beaming now, enjoying the exchange between the elf and the Scottish witch, what had always been a great source of fun to him. But Minerva's question had aroused his curiosity, making him pay more attention.

Hazel seemed just as much disconcerted by the question, as she stared at her employer in utter disbelief.

"What?" she finally managed to say, louder than she intended to. "Didn't _you_ visit her? Like nearly every d—"

"That is not the point," said the witch sharply, her glasses flashing dangerously with impatience.

For once, the elf didn't seem to worry about it, as she carried on, with the same astonished look on her face:

"You _do_ talk," she said, "the two of you. Why don't _you_ ask her what you want to know?"

Not that she didn't want to do the job, but Hazel knew the question wasn't simply intended to gather information about the girl's recovery. Far too often had she saw the little smiles, the concern for the other in hidden questions, the blossoming love in their eyes, the —

She was cut in her thoughts by the exasperated sigh Minerva let out. The Headmistress had her hands covering her face, as though praying to be given the patience to deal with the elf and not to knock her out with her tartan tin.

"As I said," she hissed with a cool, crisp tone, "_that_ is not the point." She peered over the flashing glasses at the little thing draped in blue velvet. "Is that really too much to ask you, Hazel, to answer a simple question?"

Her voice was exceedingly collected, considering there were almost sparks flying from her nostrils as she breathed in noisily. The large ears of the elf were flattened in apprehension, as she realised that maybe, this time, she had crossed the line. She had a lump in her throat, hearing what sounded like deception in her mistress' voice.

"I —" she croaked, her voice breaking down with shame. "I think she's doing ok, professor."

McGonagall looked at her wordlessly, before she finally sighed.

"I did not asked you a 16 inches essay on the question, but if the only thing you can tell me is that she's "doing ok", you might as well go."

"She was crying —" she said tremulously, not daring to look at Minerva whose eyes had gone wide-open. "— the other day, she was crying."

"And do you know why?"

"I didn't dare to ask. In fact, I don't think she even realised I was there."

The Transfiguration professor nodded wordlessly, her eyes veiled with sadness. Hazel came closer and carefully put her tiny hand above Minerva's.

"Her friends don't really understand, but you do," she whispered.

Indeed, she knew too well. The nightmares, the long nights passed in the most anguishing loneliness, the numbness that had followed… she knew how it felt.

"You should tell her."

The witch looked at the elf, abashed, not quite sure to what Hazel was referring. The small hand gently stroked hers, before the little figure left mutely. The office remained silent, the Headmistress lost in her thoughts…

"What do you think she was referring to?"

The voice was deep, soft. The witch turned around, meeting Dumbledore's compassionate blue eyes. He smiled tenderly, waiting for Minerva to speak. He had his own opinion on the subject, but wanted to know her friend's one.

"From that falsely ingenuous smile," she said, half in jest, half in earnest, "I guess you have some great idea of what she meant."

He chuckled, absently playing with his beard.

"Indeed, I do have my opinion. But I guess yours might be somehow more… interesting. Or shall I say, revealing?"

McGonagall's eyebrows rose so high her glasses could have fallen off her nose. Merlin, did _he_ know? Of course he knew, she thought, slightly exasperated at her late friend's perspicacity. He had always had this infuriating habit to know everything that was going on around him while alive, why Merlin would it have changed, just because the wizard was dead and framed?

"I guess she was merely alluding to my own injuries during the war against Grindelwald."

Oh God she was a terrible liar. And Albus had seen it. She had seen him seeing it. And he had seen her seeing him seeing it. She was doomed.

"Really," he said scoffingly.

"Alright, alright," she said upset. "There might be —" she spoke with an aching slowness, like if the words didn't want to come out, "— something else." She looked at Albus uneasily. "Something I ought to talk to you about," she conceded. _Even though I think you already know what I'm about to say_, she inwardly added.

"I'm all ears," he stated, like it was not obvious enough. "When you're ready, Minerva."

"Well —" _Merlin this was going to be hard._ "Hazel _might_ have been referring to…" How could she describe it? How could she possibly tell her late friend that— "the growing closeness between miss Granger and I." she said hastily, fighting the blush that was colouring her cheeks.

"Closeness," repeated the portrait, "as in…"

"Oh come on Albus! You know bloody well what I mean," she snapped tartly.

He nodded calmly, as though trying to counter the rising hysteria in the witch's voice.

"It's ok, dear —"

"Ok?" she repeated with in a strangled voice, wincing with utter shock. "How can you possibly say that it's _ok_ to have —" She broke down, eyes wide-open as she realised what she had been about to admit.

"To have what, Minerva? Feelings?"

She stared at him flabbergasted, rooted on spot. Yes, she thought, feelings. She had feelings for the young Gryffindor, she always had. If it had just been care she had for her pupil at the beginning, it had grown into something bigger, stronger… scarier. Because yes, it was indeed scary. She wasn't allowed such feelings, as beautiful as they may be, and even if she was, she would never find them reciprocated she thought painfully.

"I cannot — she's a — she's a student, Albus!" she breathed faintly, her voice rising in octave as she did.

"I understand," he retorted, "I understand your reserve dear, but I think I'm not mistaken when I say you should consider her as a _former_ student or yours."

"Former student of mine? What do you mean, _former student of mine_?" she said sharply, annoyed by his habit of always beating around the bush.

"Miss Granger, along with mister Potter and mister Weasley, will probably not be returning to Hogwarts to finish their schooling next September."

There was an awkward silence between them, before Minerva finally came out with a loud:

"WHAT?"

Dumbledore cleared his throat when he saw the fulminating green eyes staring at him with a mixture of incredulity and pure ire.

"I gave them — well rather Harry, a mission. I daresay that miss Granger and mister Weasley will stick with him, as they always have."

"You gave the boy a — Albus!" She looked at him as though it was a very curious thing to do. "They might be cunning, but the three of them? Do you _really_ think it's wise? Over and above the fact that we almost lost Hermione to Bellatrix Lestrange! Bellatrix, of all those filthy Death Eaters! Isn't that _enough_?"

"_Professor McGonagall_," he said, a hand risen, "I believe you've always trusted me, even in dark times. The worst is ahead, and mister Potter shall need his friends more he ever did."

"So what are you telling me exactly? To make the most of the situation? To take advantage of the girl while she's still alive?" she shrieked.

"No, Minerva, I won't tell you to "take advantage of the girl", because I don't think it's what it's called when you _love_ someone."

That remark silenced the Scottish witch who sunk, weak-kneed into her chair.

"Because you _do_ love her, don't you?" he softly asked, smiling gently.

She couldn't look at him. Not after what had just been said. Not after what she had truly admitted to herself.

"I —" she began with a hoarse voice, before breaking down in sobs.

Her body was shaking by emotions for a moment. Dumbledore remained silent, waiting for his friend to compose herself. She finally managed to do so, locking watery emerald eyes into icy blue ones.

"I do," she whispered with a constricted voice. "I love her more than anything, Albus."

He smiled and nodded, wishing he could have been here to hug the distressed professor.

* * *

Hermione had been allowed a night out by Madam Pomfrey, on condition that she stopped pushing on her leg and didn't go to far from Hogwarts, in case she needed medical attention. The Gryffindor had agreed, more than happy to share a dinner with Harry. For some unclear reasons, the others couldn't make it and there would be only the two of us, he had told her. She had frowned a bit, not quite believing that Ron wouldn't have found the time to come, but hadn't said anything. Besides, it was nice, sometimes, to be alone with Harry, she thought.

They had gone to Hogsmead, at The Three Bromsticks; Madam Rosmerta had arranged them a quite table upstairs. They had taken butterbeers and some pie, not really hungry for the food but rather to catch up, as they haven't seen each others for more than a week now.

"So, how are you feeling? Any residual pain?"

"For Merlin's sake Harry, you sound just like Madam Pomfrey!" teased the girl.

"You're right," he admitted, chuckling at the comment. "But still, tell me: how's the recovery?"

"Rather good. It will take some time before the… nightmares vanish, I guess, but I'm feeling better." she said, taking a sip of her butterbeer.

The boy looked at her in disbelief, with a mocking smile.

"Well, I might be prone to occasional flashbacks."

"Hermione," he breathed, feeling his heart sunk in his chest. "why didn't you tell us? Does Pomfrey knows? And McGonagall? Does she know?"

"Why would she?" she said on the defensive. "And no, I didn't tell Madam Pomfrey either: she couldn't heal _that_ in any case, so…" She sighed as she saw he was not going to let it go. "I assure you Harry, it's fine. I just need some time."

"Don't you think you should talk about it with someone?" he risked, with a little smile.

"And what do you think we're doing right now?"

"Touché."

She smirked and paused for long minutes, before carefully adding:

"Why again couldn't Ron join us tonight?"

Harry bit his lips, not quite at ease under his friend's inquisitive look.

"He… he was…"

"Harry," she said with the professor's tone she sometimes used with both of the boys when she wanted them to do something for her, "the truth."

"You promise not to go all _Hermione-crazy_ about it?"

She shrieked with laughter, choking on her drink.

"_That_," she began, "is definitely worrying and bizarre, but you have my word. I promise I'll _try_ not to go all _Hermione-crazy_ about it," she swore, like if she was in a trial. "Now spit it out, the suspense is killing me!"

"Ron wanted me to be alone with you tonight to — er — gather information about whether or not you might be interested in him." he said hastily, before taking big gulps of his butterbeer.

The brunette looked as if he had suddenly been talking parseltongue. The incomprehension floating in her eyes was soon replaced by anger though, what made Harry tremble in apprehension.

"He wanted — WHAT?!"

"He was really worried when we got ambushed by the Death Eaters," carefully said Harry, not quite daring to look at his friend. "You and he have always got along relatively well, despite your — let's say differences. He said you needed someone to look after you, and as he was —"

"Oh, do I?"

Harry knew that no matter what she had promised, she would go mad about it. Her hair, usually bushy already, were now bristling like a cat's fur; the brown irises were flashing ominously, and her fists were clenched on the table, as though to avoid falling from her chair.

"I've always been a second bet for him, and now that he can't find someone, _I_ get in line."

Her voice was in cold fury, causing the boy to keep a low profile; he'd have buried himself under the table if he had been afforded this chance, but already, Hermione was going on, boiling.

"Besides, it has never occurred any of you that I may not have been interested by him, hasn't it?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer her, but she slammed her fist on to the table, butterbeer spilling all over the tablecloth.

"THAT WAS RHETORICAL FOR MERLIN'S SAKE!"

"Everything alright in —"

Madam Rosmerta's warm voice broke down as she entered the room. There was a pregnant pause, during which nobody dared to say a word. Finally came the embarrassed whisper of the manager:

"I'll — come back later."

Hermione turned back to Harry, fire dancing in her irises.

"You can tell this — this — this blithering idiot of Ron, that I am anything but interested in him," she growled, "because there's someone else."

She stood up, ready to leave, but Harry gently caught her by the wrist.

"Hermione," he breathed, "please. You know subtlety is not Ron's strong suit…"

"Well, not yours as well, if you want to know," she said sharply.

"_Right_. Anyway, you don't need to talk about it if you don't want to but —" He looked at her with a childish smile. "Do we know that _someone else_?"

"Harry," she sighed, "I'm not sure I —"

"Come on! At least give me the first letter of his name!"

She bit her lips, and as she lifted her eyes up and locked them into Harry's, he could have sworn he saw tears glistening in them. She swallowed hard, before whispering in a voice that was soft he almost didn't catch what she said.

"The first letter of _her_ name is 'M'." She let a brief pause, scanning his reaction. "Goodnight Harry. It was — good to see you."

And with a light kiss on his cheek, she left.

* * *

When Hermione arrived at the gates of Hogwarts, she felt relieved. She couldn't really explain why, maybe because she had finally admitted to herself what were her feelings about her mentor. That wasn't quite a peaceful realisation, she thought with a smile, but to put a name on what had tormented her mind those past few weeks, felt good.

Good, but scary, she whispered as she passed the gates. Before she entered the castle, she looked up at the windows: the ones of Minerva's quarters were lit. She smiled slightly at the idea. Merlin knows she wanted to go there. Even if it was just to catch five seconds of her professor's fragrance, of her Scottish brogue that mesmerized her. The voluptuous perfume of McGonagall haunted her, day and night. Her sleep was now split between horrid nightmares and beautiful dreams she flushed just to think about; in both case, she would wake up dripping with sweat.

She walked past the Headmistress' quarters, stopping for a moment. Every fibre of her body was pushing her towards the large door, but she couldn't bring herself to knock. What would she say? That she wanted to spend some time with a professor she had always admired beyond mental sanity? That is was actually _more_ than simple admiration? That —

"Back already?" said a sarcastic voice behind her.

Hermione turned around, a shiver of pleased surprise caressing her skin as eyes met green ones.

"I did promise Madam Pomfrey I would, professor," she retorted with a smile.

"I know, I'm just surprised you actually did it," said Minerva, smirking. "Anyway, I hope you had a good evening?"

"It was —" Well, it wasn't _that _bad, except for the butterbeer spilled everywhere, her temper, Ron's utter stupidity, …. "— ok, I guess."

The older witch frowned a bit.

"Sounds like a date."

Hermione stayed dumbstruck for an instant, abashed by what McGonagall, probably the stiffest and severest teacher of the school, had just said, and she finally erupted into a fist of laughter.

"Not a good one, obviously."

"Definitely not," said the young Gryffindor, still laughing. "And definitely not a date as well; I was with Harry."

"Oh, I would have thought mister Weasley —"

She stopped as the sight of Hermione's wide-open eyes, where was lying rests of exasperation and anger.

"I take it has a 'no' then," she carefully said, inwardly smiling in relief — she wouldn't have been able to see her protégée ending up with the redhead.

"To put it mildly," said the young girl with a faint smile.

She couldn't help but to get a bit dizzy by Minerva's scent, as she was only two meters away from her now. The Scottish appeared to notice, because she whispered, an amused smile dancing on her lips:

"Would you care for a drink? Or —"

Less than one meter now.

"— should I put you to bed, _young lady_?"

"I — I think —"

The impressive figure of professor McGonagall was dominating her with an obvious pleasure, like the cat which plays with the mouse before eating it. Hermione shivered, blushing furiously as she wondered what to answer to _that _and where to look, as her professor's breasts were, obviously, out of question.

"A — a drink would be good, but —"

Minerva smirked even more, her eyes flashing with… what was it, lust? The young girl didn't find the time to analyse this further, because as her mentor came closer, she took a few steps back and bumped into the wall, the cold marble against her back causing her to be short of breath. Her professor leant over with an infuriating slowness. Hermione almost forgot how to breathe and nearly fainted when she felt the elegant hand slightly brush her side, as her mentor reached for — the doorknob, and opened the door leading the her quarters. She stepped aside, staring in a amused-mocking way at her student.

"After you, miss Granger."

Floating, like in a dream, she obeyed and entered the vast apartments of her mentor. Her eyes were immediately caught by the enormous library, which was displayed on a great part of the walls. The dancing light of candles offered a subdued lightning that made her smile inwardly. On the shelves were also strange objects which emitted soft jingles… Somehow, the room was austere, maybe like its owner at the first sight, but when you looked more carefully, when you truly began to _see_, it became warmer and comforting. It felt safe, thought the girl.

"Please, sit," said the older witch, looking at the student with a tender smile, pointing the sofa with her head. "What would like to drink?"

"What are you having?"

"A glass of whisky."

Hermione looked a bit surprised at the professor she had always pictured drinking tea and eating ginger newts. Her lips slightly parted, not quite daring to ask for the same thing, even though she didn't want to look to childish next to McGonagall while taking some pumpkin juice.

The Transfiguration teacher seemed to notice the discomfort of her pupil, because she added:

"You can have one too, Hermione, it's alright. You're of age and term isn't starting any soon, is it?"

She turned around with one glass in each hand, heading one to the girl.

"Besides, it tastes wonderful."

The young Gryffindor lifted her glass shyly as a cheers, and took a careful sip of the beverage. It felt somehow round and warm, which a rich taste of spice she was unable to name.

"That," she said, eyes closed in delight, "is quite an understatement."

"I'm glad you like it," said the older witch with a light chuckle.

Sitting next to her protégée on the sofa, she couldn't help but to devour her with green sparkling eyes. The object of her desires seemed to be unaware of her beauty and attraction, and that just made her more attractive. The long curly brown hair were cascading with casualness, and Minerva wanted nothing more than to pass a hand in them, to caress the girl's cheek, to let her hand explore that body which had her dreams its home for the past weeks.

They both remained silent for long minutes, just enjoying each other's presence. Finally, Minerva broke the quietness, her intense gaze locked on the girl sitting next to her.

"I don't believe I ever saw you so quiet," she whispered. "Except maybe that time in first year…"

Hermione choked on her drink from embarrassment, as she recalled the event: it was during first year, when they had been caught in the astronomy tower, at one o'clock in the morning. Merlin she could have died this night, under the reprimanding of her Head of House.

"Yeah that time… I thought you were going to put a jinx on us," she whispered with a sheepish smile.

"That crossed my mind."

The younger witch burst out laughing.

"I'm shocked," she breathed, whipping tears away. "We weren't _that_ bad…"

It was the turn for the teacher to take and abashed and scandalised look.

"Are you kidding? When there was something happening, it was _always_ you three!"

"You might have a point."

"Oh, I believe I _do_ have a point," she said, finishing her glass. "You three were quite a challenge, even though I'm not sure mister Potter and mister Weasley would have managed to break nearly every school rules if you hadn't been here to help them doing so."

"I'm quite sure there was a compliment hidden in that," she teased.

"Well, I did tell you, you were the cleverest witch I have ever met, didn't I?" Hermione nodded, closing her eyes as she felt the elegant fingers brushing her cheek. She opened them, starring at her mentor, yearning for more, for her to — "My little _know-it-all_," whispered Minerva, her Scottish brogue making her pupil shiver.

"Professor," she breathed, panting, like a desperate plea.

She _needed_ more. There was an unstoppable force which was pushing her against the older witch, and she could do nothing to stop it — she didn't want it to be stopped.

Minerva smirked softly, seeing that her protégée couldn't resist anymore. Her animagus traits urged her to possess the girl, to make Hermione hers, to sacrifice the girl's virtue on the altar of her sheets, to —

Her lips captured Hermione's.

It was incredibly soft, tender. She could feel the spicy taste of whisky on the swollen lips from were was already coming a begging moan. Minerva gently pulled back, stroking the girl's hair. She knew she had to stop now, or she wouldn't be able to. Not that she didn't want to…

Hermione seemed to notice the inward fight that was going on in her mentor's head, because she suddenly looked utterly panicked.

"Please," she murmured with a shaky voice, "I —"

She was shushed by a finger on her lips — Merlin, she thought, even that was… _too much._

"My dear," she said. "It's late, you need rest, and I —"

"Let me stay," she said hastily. "Let me stay here tonight."

"This —"

Brown eyes widened in horror.

"Don't say this cannot be. I — Please, Minerva, don't'."

The older witch's eyebrows were arched, and slowly, and amused smirk rose on her lips.

"I was merely going to say it is not wise, _miss Granger._"

The young Gryffindor opened her mouth but no words came out of it.

"Now go to sleep, young lady. I promise you I'll still be here tomorrow," she added with a smile, gently kissing the girl's forehead. "Besides, I happen to be tired as well."

* * *

_A.N: I hope this chapter was worth waiting, romance scenes are not really my strong suit. Anyway, thanks for the reviews! Tell me what you have thought of this one :) I think the next chapter will take some time to arrive, but I'll do my best to download it as soon as possible! ;)_


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione was lying in her bed in silence, her eyes staring at the ceiling as she was absently running her fingers on her left forearm, brushing she mark Bellatrix Lestrange had left during their last encounter. Nobody knew. She hadn't had the courage to tell Harry and Ron, as they were already beating themselves up with guilt. Poppy didn't know either; the young Gryffindor had casted a hiding charm on it. If she could bear the other scars, this one in particular was above everything. She couldn't possibly describe the feeling of shame that would invade her: just at the thought of it, she would feel nauseous.

_"You filthy mudblood, maybe this will teach you…"_

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to make the images go away. Bellatrix Lestrange's high pitched laugh still resonated in her mind like she was right next to her.

_"Please, I —"_

She had begged her, implored her. That was another memory she was ashamed of. She could still see herself, kneeling weakly in front of the Death Eater, sobbing a faint plea.

_"Hold her."_

She cringed at the memory, remembering quite well how two strong arms had lifted her up, like she was nothing but a rag doll; how she had been pinned to the wall, her arm offered to Bellatrix's madness.

She could still feel it. How the wand had etched the first letter into her skin, how the word had been burning since then, the satisfied grin on Voldemort's followers face, how the had let her sob, curled up on the floor, her arm held tight to her chest.

"Weak."

The word crossed her lips at the same time as the one Bellatrix had said with an utter disgust, in the memory. Her jaws were clenched, as though not to let out the sobs that were threatening to submerge her. She breathed heavily, trying desperately to find some rest, to get her mind elsewhere. The mental peregrinations inevitably ended up with a image of Minerva McGonagall.

If picturing her mentor generally brought Hermione some of the peace she needed, it also came with a sadness she couldn't avoid. She had replayed that kiss a thousand times in her mind, feeling a tornado of butterflies in her stomach as she did, but at the same time, she couldn't help but feeling a little bit sad. Yes, she loved the woman. More than anything and she couldn't be happier to see that it was reciprocated. But she didn't deserve it. She was broken, she thought. _Weak_. Soon or later, she would be a greater disappointment to Minerva. Soon or later, she would have to be confronted with her scars; how could her mentor possibly love that body, that fractured body? _Damaged goods, _had they called her at the manor.

She had almost ordered the Transfiguration teacher not to say it couldn't be, but could it really? Was it even possible, between the two of them? She wished she had been able to leave, but that kiss… Merlin, how could so much happiness be held in so few seconds? She sighed, a smile floating on her lips as she reckoned every single of those seconds.

"Hazel," she finally said, hearing a 'pop' almost instantly.

"Miss? Is everything alright?"

The house elf was standing straight, a slightly concerned look on her face. She was staring in silence at the girl, her little arms crossed in her back, waiting for the brunette to answer.

"Quite," she said, stretching up. "What time is it? Too early for breakfast?"

The little creature looked sternly at Hermione for a moment, as though analysing her body language. She took a deep, noisy breath, before whispering in a voice that sounded almost disappointed:

"You're as bad liar as the mistress." She shook her head faintly. "It's six-thirty. You might want to hurry up a bit, if you don't want to be the last arriving in the Great Hall."

"How do you —?"

"Well, I would simply say that I'm not stupid."

"I never meant that you were, Hazel."

"I know," she said with a little smile. "You're not like most of the wizards." She marked a brief pause. "I understand you do not wish to speak about what… happened, or what you are currently going through. But don't feel the need to lie to me about it: it's ok if you don't want to discuss the subject."

The witch stared open-mouthed at the little elf, who was casually opening the windows and drawing the curtains.

"I… Thanks, Hazel. I just don't feel…"

"Ready."

The elf turned back, facing the student again.

"As I said, it's alright. Just know that when you are, you can talk to me if you need to."

Hermione nodded wordlessly. She rose from her bed and began to undress, tossing her nightgown unceremoniously on the mattress. It always made her smile to see Hazel covering her protruding eyes with her hand, not daring to look at her, even if she was in underwear.

"Could you hand me the white shirt?"

The elf obliged silently, a slight blush on her cheeks that made the young Gryffindor smile even more. She fastened the front buttons, having a little bit more trouble with the one of the sleeves. Hazel let escape a small breathe, amused at the view of the struggling witch.

"Allow me," she said, her tiny hands gripping the sleeves confident gestures.

She frowned when she noticed Hermione freezing as she touched her left arm. She could distinguish the skin was darker at some place, as Hogwarts' white shirts were slightly transparent. As she saw Hermione's eyes, looking at her with utter panic, her lips already begging her to let it go, she knew something was wrong. Slowly, she reached for the end of sleeve and carefully rolled it up.

"What… is… that," she said, her voice strangled by horror and sadness.

Hermione bit her lips, quickly sliding her sleeve back on her skin to cover it up. Even if it looked like it was still burning, the mark wasn't hurtful anymore. Despite it hadn't healed like the rest of her wounds, which were now white scars dancing on her back, the mark Bellatrix Lestrange had soiled her skin with was painless. The word itself, on the other hand, burned as strongly as the day it was etched.

"It's nothing. Please don't' —"

The house elf was speechless. The red letters had hit her with a violence she didn't expect: _mudblood._ She shook her head, feeling the witch tense, nearly sobbing. Those humans, she thought, were some strange creatures; while they had everything in hand to do good, there were still some who chose to hurt each other. And for what? Had pain ever made sense, really?

Hazel starred wordlessly at the girl. What could she possibly have said? She felt helpless. Merlin, she did. What word could she say to silence the one that had been etched not only on the soft creamy skin of the girl, but also on her memory? She let the student's arm go, jumping on the bed next to her. Gently, Hermione felt two little arms enlacing her neck, as a soft whisper warmed her to the soul.

"I'm sorry, friend," breathed the elf. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

After that, breakfast had been a torture. Hermione had made her way to the Great Hall, for once glad she had a walking to steady her, as she was still trembling from what had happened with Hazel. _I'm sorry, friend. _The words had been softly whispered in her ear with a sadness the girl didn't think possible. There was no pity in the elf voice however, for what she was glad. She couldn't have bared to be pitied.

The large oak doors were already opened, meaning there would already be members of the staff eating. For an instant, Hermione thought of turning back and skip breakfast, just to go seek the peace she desperately needed. Not really knowing why, she crossed the doors, her limp making a regular noise on the marble floor. Her gaze floated on the teachers' table, and she felt her heart race in her chest. Minerva McGonagall was looking straight at her, nodding absently at what her colleagues were saying.

"Good morning," she said with a throaty voice, a faint smile on her lips as she greeted the teachers present.

She sat at the right of her mentor, with the burning desire to leave, already. She felt cold, shivers running on her skin, letting goose bumps behind them. And for once, that couldn't be implicated to the witch sitting next to her. Merlin, that was going to be hard, she thought.

Minerva frowned a bit, noticing the girl's unease. Her plate lay barely touched in front of her, as the young Gryffindor absently played with her fork, mind elsewhere. She would always like to be a part of the academic debates, even though she was quite shy, and yet, she hadn't said a single word since her arrival. Filius had noticed it as well, and made a quick sign to Minerva; he would managed to get the attention of the others away from the girl while she spoke with her.

"Hermione," she softly whispered, "what's wrong?"

The girl froze, her cup of tea stopping mid air. She could feel the insistent and concerned gaze burning her skin, like a silent plea. She took a deep breath and put the porcelain cup back on the table. Her brown eyes remained fixed right in front of her, determined; she knew that if she looked at her left, she would loose it, she wouldn't be able to restrain herself any longer.

"Nothing," she lied, her cheeks flushing as she could hear McGonagall stiff breathing.

"Look at me."

The voice was calm, strong. The girl obeyed tremulously, her pulse racing as her eyes were captured by emerald ones.

"What's wrong," she repeated, peering over her glasses at the brunette, with a steady voice that didn't give way to compromises.

Hermione opened her mouth, but no sound came out of it. Her watery eyes were begging the Headmistress to let it go, but she could see this wasn't going to happen any soon. And looking in those green eyes, looking at the witch she had desired so much… she couldn't lie. Not to her.

"Not here," she finally whispered painfully, with a hoarse voice. "Please, I can't —"

Her voice broke and she turned away, not able to look her mentor in the face any longer. The Scottish remained silent for what seemed to last an eternity, her eyes floating on her pupil's figure.

"Ok," she finally said. "Come to the transfiguration classroom when you feel up to talk, I shall await you there."

She didn't want to have Albus, along with all the previous headmasters and headmistresses, listening to their conversation.

Hermione nodded and excused herself, leaving the Great Hall as quickly as her leg allowed her to, followed by two green eyes.

* * *

The door was already opened, as an invitation to come in. Sitting behind a large desk, the Headmistress was answering her mail at a steady rate, the scratching of the quill on the parchment being the only soft noise in the room. At the opposite side of the classroom stood Hermione, biting her lower lips. She didn't know if she could talk about it, if she'd be strong enough to explain, to relive it, once again. Her fidgeting didn't go unnoticed, because soon, the Scottish brogue got her out of her thoughts.

"I'm sure the door frame is quite comfortable," she said, her eyes remaining on the paper she was writing. "However, may I suggest you come in and take a seat?"

She lifted her head, eyebrows arched, a little smile on her lips as she saw the pink on the girl's cheeks. Hermione closed the door and walked to the front of the class and sat at her usual desk, the one which was the closest to her teacher's one. She brushed the wood with the tip of her fingers, remembering how many times she had sat here, drinking her professor's passionate explanations on transfiguration. The two witches remained silent for a long time, Minerva's percent gaze on the girl whose eyes were locked on the desk in front of her, imprisoned by the shame she felt. _Weak. So weak._

"This morning," she began, a hurricane of emotions at the back of her throat. She stopped, swallowing hard, closing her eyes for a brief instant to compose herself. "I don't know if I can do this, I —"

"Take your time."

McGonagall's voice was calm, soothing. More than anything in the world, thought the young Gryffindor who nodded wordlessly.

"Hazel, she saw some… scars of mine," she breathed, like all the air had suddenly left her lungs.

She could hear her mentor moving, and her eyes were soon taken by the green robes that were next to her. Her mentor was leaning on the desk, with a proximity that made the pupil's breath short.

"Your back," said Minerva, gently brushing Hermione's cheek, who turned away as if she had been burned, her eyes closed, tears already rolling down her face. The Scottish witch felt her heart sink, taken aback by her protégée's reaction. "Hermione," she whispered, concerned. "What is it? Tell me, please…"

"It's not the back," she croaked, choking her tears back.

Green eyes widened, horrified in anticipation. She had gone through the medical record Poppy had drafted; there was only the back that would remain… marked, despite the nurse's efforts. Broken bones and contusions wouldn't let any trace of the event. She was about to say she didn't understand then, when a shaky hand took hold of the left sleeve of the shirt. Wordlessly, Hermione rolled the hem higher, showing the creamy skin of her forearm. Minerva was staring at it incredulously, before she heard a weak spell cross the trembling lips. _Revelio._

The word slapped her in the face. _Mudblood._ She blinked several times, not quite believing the reddish angry word that had been etched into the pale skin. She was speechless, the tempest of emotions she was drowning into had silenced her. She was utterly sad, fractured. Angry, furious. Helpless.

"How — what —" she stuttered in a whisper, laced with the rage she felt towards whom ever had carved the word in her pupil's skin.

"Bellatrix." The voice of the girl was so weak the older witch had to quickly summon a chair, sinking weak-kneed in it. "Bellatrix," repeated the student, "she —" An hesitation. "— lost patience." Her voice broke, eyes desperately hiding from her mentor's gaze.

Minerva's fingers, gently rubbing her scared forearm, made her shiver, both from delight and horror. She let out a gasp as she felt a hand lifting her chin, with infinite thoughtfulness.

"They know? Harry and Ron?"

The brunette shook her head, mocha eyes shifting away. The Headmistress stared at her in silence for a moment. If the two best friends didn't know, then it was only her. Her and Hazel, obviously.

"Look at me," she finally whispered, "please."

Hermione did, watery eyes begging for… for what? Not to be abandoned? Not to be pitied? Minerva leant in, gently brushing her lips on slightly parted ones. The salty taste was mixed with the one of passion, of an overwhelming passion there were no words to describe. She felt the young woman responds to her embrace with a surprising eagerness, as though desperately clinging to life, like a shipwrecked afraid to lose his buoy.

Their mouths crashed violently, Hermione moaning at the feel of Minerva's tongue dancing across hers. She pulled the older witch closer, her hands firmly grabbing green robes. She didn't care for feelings, for romance. Not at the present time, at least. Right now, she just needed to feel the older woman's touch. She needed to feel loved, desired… She needed to be possessed, to forget. _To escape._

Her hands began to unbutton her shirt and unfasten her tie, but she stopped brusquely, as her mentor was already pulling back.

"Come on," she whispered, half aroused half exasperated by her lover's reaction. "I need you, I —"

She tried to kiss her again, but Minerva prevented her from doing so.

"Not like this," she calmly said, even though the view she had of her pupil made her pulse race and her mouth dry. "— and definitely not here."

Hermione glared furiously at her, her mouth slightly opened in disbelief, before she finally uttered a loud:

"What?"

The Transfiguration teacher sighed. Of all the reactions possible, she didn't expect that one.

"Hermione," she softly began, immediately cut by the younger witch.

"Don't 'Hermione' me," she said tartly. "What is it? You pureblood can't love a — a _filthy mudbl__ood_? You're ashamed of it too?" Her voice was rising with a mixture of anger and sorrow, as she designated the mark on her forearm.

"Is that what you feel? Shame?" asked her professor with a calm, dismissive voice.

" I —" Hermione stopped, breathing heavily. "What do you think? That it's something you can be _proud_ of? To have been Bellatrix's personal entertainment for weeks?" Her voice was rising in octaves with each sentence, as the girl was almost screaming. "You can't possibly —"

"I cannot what, _miss Granger_?"

The sudden icy, severe tone in Minerva's voice left Hermione rotted on the spot.

"Understand? See that you are obviously much more in pain you dare to admit? That no matter how hard you try, it doesn't fade away?"

She had stood up now, and the student had never felt so small, as her mentor was towering above her, a stern look on the face.

"If you're merely looking for some kind of release and throw yourself into my arms just to forget," she said sharply, not stopping at Hermione's ashen face — the words of her professor feeling like a slap in her face, "I suggest you just go, because I'm not the person you seek."

"It was not — I don't — You —"

The Headmistress, who had returned to her desk, didn't even bother to look up.

"I trust you can show yourself out," she said with a prodigious lack of interest, readjusting her glasses on her nose as she took some unopened letters.

* * *

It was late, Minerva was sitting in her large sofa, a glass of whisky in one hand, a book in the other. She had been reading the same line over and over for some time now, before she closed the book with an exasperated sigh.

"Albus, you've been staring at me for the past ten minutes without a word. Why don't you go choke on one of your beloved lemon-drops in my office?"

He smiled tenderly, amused by his friend sharp tone.

"You want to talk about it?" he kindly offered.

He could tell by the look on the Scottish witch's face that she was seriously considering his proposition. She seemed hesitant for a moment however, as though she was not sure how much she could tell her friend about her infatuation with the young Gryffindor. Because he knew it had to do with Hermione, of course.

"She was upset," she said, tired. "I noticed it this morning, during breakfast, and told her to talk to me."

"What she didn't agree to."

"Well, not in the Great Hall, but she did come in the transfiguration classroom though."

She held the glass to her lips, tasting the rich, warm liquid. She remembered how it had felt, to taste it on Hermione's lips. Pure happiness, she thought with a weak smile. What if she had ruined everything? Her questioning must have shown on her face, because Dumbledore softly stated:

"And that didn't go well."

"Not really, no." She marked a brief pause, letting the strong whisky burn her tongue. "She showed me a scar she got… Bellatrix, in her zeal to interrogate her, carved 'mudblood' in her forearm." Blue eyes flashed with an uncommon rage hearing that. "I know Albus," she softly said, noticing his anger. "I felt — still feel — the same. I'm having the Order working on that… case."

"And then?"

"Well, if we can't trust the ministry anymore, I guess we'll have to —"

"No, I meant with Hermione," he corrected. "What happened after she showed you that scar?"

"Well, I —" she began, fidgeting on her seat. "We kissed." she uttered, a light blush on her cheeks.

Dumbledore's eyebrows were arched in surprise, but soon, a large beam made its way on his lips. His blue eyes were sparkling with amusement at the sight of his friend, obviously embarrassed, who gulped the end of her whisky with precipitation.

"That's good news," he exclaimed. "isn't it? Minerva?"

"Partially," she whispered, sighing at her own foolishness. What could she possibly offer the girl? She was an old witch, she had lived, she —

"Partially? How can a kiss partially be good? Either it is, either it isn't, I don't see how —"

"Albus, stop playing the match-maker for a second. Things got out of hands, I rejected her — hum — advances, and told her to leave."

Merlin knows she had had to fight the burning desire she felt for the girl. But things could simply not happen that way, she thought. Not like this. That kind of intimacy was to precious to be thrown on a desk, in a hurry. She wasn't sure her protégée would forgive her for that rejection, but it was necessary. She knew Hermione would have regretted it later, to have acted upon those bestial instincts, just to forget about the pain, about her.

"I've probably ruined it. Everything," she sighed, rubbing her eyes with her hand.

"Seems you're about to find out." Minerva stared at him with a quizzical look. "She's at the door," he stated, disappearing from his portrait.

* * *

Hermione had been staying silently in front of the large doors for more than ten minutes now, not daring to make a move. She was dying of embarrassment at how she had talked to Minerva, at how she had behaved. The words of her mentor, ice cold, had cut her heart open. _I suggest you just go, because I'm not the person you seek._ They had been said in a sharp, disdainful tone that had made her shiver in horror. But the worst had been to hear the slight note of disappointment in McGonagall's voice. Disappointment and sadness. The young Gryffindor had been beating herself up all day long, just because of the thought she might have, somehow, hurt the woman she loved. And now, here she was, mentally pacing — the leg and the walking stick providing her to mime her mental state, in front of Minerva's quarters. It was late, maybe she was asleep? And what if she didn't want to talk to her? Like never again? Her mind was running full speed, when the door flew open, revealing a bewildered Headmistress at the door frame.

The student was suddenly short-winded, her mouth going dry. She had rehearsed a great speech all the afternoon, to apologise and assure the older witch of her feelings towards her. But all was gone, and all she could do was staring at Minerva flabbergasted, panic pulsating against her temples. The professor recovered from the surprise as she saw the anguish that clouded her pupil's brown eyes. She stepped aside wordlessly, letting the girl enter in the living-room.

There was a pregnant pause, neither woman knowing what to say or do. After long minutes of awkward silence, came a tremulous whisper.

"You were right," breathed the young girl, looking abashed at Minerva. "I'm ashamed," she added, seeing her mentor's eyebrows rising in question.

A veil of sorrow covered green eyes as Minerva heard her student's words. _Ashamed. _The only one who should have been ashamed was the one who had soiled the silk-like skin of the girl, she thought.

"Not only for that."

The Scottish witch frowned. What was she ashamed of then? Not her feelings, right? _Right?_

"But also for the way I behaved, I —" she swallowed hard, her ears getting red with embarrassment. "I had no right to talk to you like this and… push you into…" Her voice broke, remembering how painful it had felt to be rejected by the older witch, even if she was right.

She couldn't look at her. She had resolutely turned her back at Minerva, afraid of what she would see in her eyes has she whispered an apology. She froze, hearing the older witch moving behind her. For a second, she thought she was leaving, but two strong hands on her waist reassured her. She could feel her mentor's breath on her neck, her svelte figure melting against her…

The two women remained quiet for a long time. Hermione had closed her eyes in pure delight at the gentle sensation of Minerva burying her face on her shoulder, taking a deep breath, intoxicated by her pupil's essence.

"Hold me… tighter. Please…"

The soft plea traced a light shiver along the Scottish's spine. She obliged, her hands moving with an aching slowness across the girl's stomach, as she pull her closer, surrounding her with all the affection she felt for her.

"Can you forgive me?"

The voice was slightly shaky. Hermione found herself gently turned around by Minerva, now facing her. Green eyes locked themselves into brown ones, before the professor leant in, a soft kiss brushing the young Gryffindor's lips. It was brief and soft, like a warm breeze in a summer night.

"Does that answer your question?" asked the Transfiguration master with a large smile, gently stroking Hermione's cheek.

The brunette nodded with a grin.

"I'm not sure I really got it, maybe you could do it —"

She felt herself brusquely pulled closer, her lips captured in a passionate embrace. She gasped at the sensation of Minerva's breast against hers, brushing under the light fabric. Green robes enveloped her as one hand was firmly pressing her closer against her mentor, the other taking a fistful of her hair throwing her head back, exposing a pale, virgin throat to eager lips.

"— again," she uttered huskily.

She felt her mentor's smirk against her skin, lips and teeth drawing a devilish trail on it. She panted when a light bite cut though her thoughts. It was a silent acknowledgment; that she was _hers_.

"I — _please…"_

"Begging already, _miss Granger_?"

Minerva straightened herself up, peering amused at the younger witch, a satisfied smile on her lips. Long fingers caressed Hermione's cheek, an she felt the girl lean in her touch, docile. Slowly, her hand brushed the scarlet and gold tie, followed by amazed and eager brown eyes. The silk fabric felt like water under her fingers, as she finished unfastening it. Inhaling her student's essence still floating on it, she cannot help but smiling wider.

"Let's hope I won't have to beg you to let me stay this time," came the husky response, making the older witch chuckle lightly.

"I don't think you'll need to," she whispered, capturing the young lips again.

* * *

_A.N: Thanks for the reviews! It's always nice to know what you think and your kind words really encourage me! I'm sorry for the delay (and the end of this chapter, which will certainly be frustrating for some of you I believe ;)) but I haven't much time left right now, with the exams approaching.. so I'm not sure I'll be able to post before June. Anyway, I'll try not to make you wait too long! :)_


	8. Chapter 8

"I'm sorry."

The shameful, hurt whisper seemed to float in the air between the two witches for long minutes. The oldest of them was standing in her green robes, remaining silent as she kept facing a window wet from the strong rain ragging outside. Her body stiffened a little as she heard her pupil apologies behind her, once again.

Hermione was sitting on the edge of the large bed, wrapped in a tartan dressing gown the Headmistress had lent her. Her hands were trembling, as well as her voice. She was breathing heavily, trying her best to contain the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her, like a lighthouse keeping straight and resisting the violent assault of the waves during a storm. Because _this_ was a storm, definitely.

"Minerva, please I —"

"I heard."

Hermione's mouth closed in a strangled gasp. There was something she couldn't quite identify in the tone her professor had used. Even if it sounded perfectly calm, the young Gryffindor couldn't help but to feel anxious. It wasn't calm, she thought, it was _controlled._ Perfectly controlled, like Minerva would always appear in front of her _students_. What was really hiding behind that steady voice? She couldn't say, and at this simple thought, she felt a lump in her throat.

The Scottish witch kept facing the window, and as the room was only lit by a few candles, the pupil couldn't distinguish her reflection in the glass. She could just remaining here, obediently sat on the bed, her eyes burning with incipient tears as she stared in a growing panic at the back of her mentor.

"You don't have to be sorry," she finally said, tilting her head to the side, as if stretching all the stiffness she had demonstrated until then. She sighed, rubbing a hand on her face. "Really, Hermione, I mean it. You need not to —"

"Then why won't you look at me?"

She immediately regretted her audacity, knowing that this conversation might very well take a bad turn if she wasn't careful, but the words had escaped her lips before she could think of what she was saying. She was already stammering something to withdraw her words from her lover's mind, when she turned around, an eyebrow arched and harbouring a look of… what? Was it exasperation? She stayed like this for agonising minutes during which the young woman felt her cheeks go red under the gaze of her professor.

"What exactly is it that you want me to say, Hermione?"

The voice was soft, sad maybe? But every single word was detached and felt like a knife stabbing her in the heart.

"I don't know, I —" The brunette looked at her agape, feeling like she had missed something. "I told you I was sorry, I thought —"

She was silenced by a raising hand.

"No need to apologise, as I already told you."

Hermione nodded, the words she didn't dare to add slowly running down her cheeks, leaving a salty path behind them.

"Why are you crying?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. She just felt like an empty shell all of the sudden, like a small rock tormented by waves, crushed on the sand before being taken back into dark waters.

"Tell me, please."

She felt long fingers stroking her wet skin and closed her eyes. It was like a breathing space in the middle of a battle she wasn't able to face.

"You're upset," she finally said. "You're upset because I didn't —"

"Darling, you said you were not ready and I respect that."

"But you're upset."

The hand left her cheek to fall along green robes. The young Gryffindor snorted with disdain.

"Of course you're upset," she said with a bitter smile. "and disappointed."

"Not because of you."

A long silence ensued, neither women quite daring to brake it at first. Minerva returned to her spot in front of the window, looking hesitantly at her pupil for an instant.

"Hermione, I'm upset because I should have known better. You're —" she took a deep breath. "You're not completely recovered from what happened there. I, of all, should know it… takes time." She paused, her eyes following the race of water droplets on the window. "I should have know better," she repeated, more to herself this time. "And instead of staying in the place that was mine, I allowed myself to —" She turned around, facing her protégée with a painful resolution in her eyes. "This relationship is ill-advised, Hermione," she blurted out. "You're still fragile, and to think that I have somehow taken advantage of that, I —" She breathed sharply, her nostrils flared. "Yes, I am upset. About this situation, about my behaviour; not because of you."

The younger witch was looking at her with her mouth agape. All the blood had left her face and she was so pale she looked like those porcelain dolls, which could break under a simple touch.

"You can't be saying what I think you're saying," she breathed, her lips slightly parted, trembling as she did.

"Hermione," Minerva began, only to find herself cut by her pupil, carrying on with a more and more shaky voice.

"You CAN'T Minerva, you —" She stopped, knowing that if she gave into hysteria now she would start crying and wouldn't be able to be coherent anymore. "You did not take advantage of me, I'm not a child, I can make my own decisions."

"Didn't I?"

There was no sarcasm in that question, only true concern and wonder. Only doubts.

"You wouldn't have tried to pursue any relationship with me if you hadn't been through —" The words were hard to fine, leaving the older witch sighing. "It is only normal to seek some comfort and need someone to lean on after what you've experienced, however it wouldn't do you any good if I —"

"Wait, you think this is just the result of — oh God, I can't believe this. I can't believe how utterly stup—"

"You said it yourself: you're not _ready_."

"Yes, to get _intimate_! For Merlin's sake, can't you understand that some marks still hurt?"

"Hermione, I understand that, but I think it wouldn't be —"

"It wouldn't be what? Wise? Is that what you're going to say?" she laughed acidly. "Why should you be wise when you're simply in love with someone?" She collapsed on the mattress, her hands covering her face like to protect her from the bitter truth. "But you don't love me, do you?"

"Hermione, I —"

Suddenly, the Headmistress voice was hesitant, almost pleading. The young Gryffindor noticed it, because when she spoke, her own voice was hoarse and shaky.

"Just — answer the question: do you love me?"

"I care about you."

"_'care about me'_, God! Don't exhaust yourself with grand gestures. Care about me, what a —"

"Don't make it harder, please."

The sharpness in Hermione's voice died as she heard a sob crossing those strict and beloved lips. Minerva was crying.

"If you love me, why go?" she finally said, standing up.

"Because it is the right thing to do. You need time, Hermione. I might help you feel better right now, but you know that on long term, that emptiness you feel will still be there. You know that, don't you?"

"How — how do you?"

"I've been there," she said with a sad smile. "And I know you will regret rushing things with me or anybody else for that matter. Take the time to recover and reconcile with yourself."

"But — No! You make me feel better, you —"

"I make you forget, Hermione. You need to forgive. Yourself."

They looked at each other in silence, understanding passing between them without words needed. Hermione knew her mentor was right, that she was still broken somehow and needed to be fixed before entering any relationship, but still, it felt like she had just been stabbed. She was craving Minerva's touch and attention. Maybe it was just a way to feel safe and protected, but… no, surely it was more, wasn't it?

"So, we're —," she began, trying her best to contain the sobs, "I'd better go get my things and —"

"You can stay here for tonight, Hermione. I'll leave you the bed and go sleep in the —"

"No."

Minerva frowned a bit, obviously not expecting a firm answer from her pupil.

"No, I — it's easier if I — Square Grimmauld."

The Headmistress nodded with a faint smile.

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

Neither of the witches moved, just keeping staring at each other.

"I'll see you at the next Order's meeting."

"Yeah…"

The both nodded lifelessly. Without realising it, their feet had brought them closer, as they were whispering their respective 'goodbyes' like the last breath of a dying man.

"So goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Their words collided very softly. It felt like brushing silk as their lips melt against the other's, the hands entangled in the hair or desperately clutching at the clothes.

"Hermione…"

"I know, I just need to —" she sighed. Minerva was right. Why did she have to be right? She was getting _clingy_. "Goodnight, Minerva."

"Goodnight, dear," she whispered.

And with regret, she let her go and watched the door shut behind the woman she loved.

* * *

Square Grimmauld was bathed in darkness, when Hermione arrived there later that night. She closed the heavy door behind her, shortly resting against it. Her breathing was steady, calm, but it didn't feel natural. Somehow, she felt she had lost this basic reflex and was now condemned to force her lungs to ventilate, as if they were giving up as well.

Waiting for her eyes to accommodate to the obscurity, she slowly made her way down the hall, passing the sleepy portraits. Hopefully they didn't hear her footsteps: right now, she hadn't the force nor the courage to deal with pictures screaming insane things at her and waking up the entire house. She just wanted a dreamless sleep, to dive in oblivion, not quite daring to think about how she would face tomorrow, how she would explain her sudden return to Grimmauld Place. Because she would have to explain things to Harry and Ron, at some point. To Ginny too, as the two of them were quite close, the redhead being one of her only female friend.

She took up the old creaking staircase, gently, not to make too much noise. She passed by the boys' room and couldn't help but smile at the sound of Ron's snoring. She bit her lips. Ron. The perfect match to everybody's eyes except hers. She had thought of this. Quite some time, in fact. How it would be, to have him as a boyfriend, and who knows? as a husband. With children, maybe. A little cottage, a quiet life. Harry would end up with Ginny sooner or later, it was just a matter of time, and they'd come visit.

She felt her eyes made smart by that vision and put a fist in her mouth to prevent herself from bursting into tears. Not here, not now: alone, when nobody could hear her. This quiet life, she didn't want it. She didn't want Ron, it wouldn't have been fair to let him believe it. But God knows she wished she did. How many times had she pray a God she didn't know? How many times had she cry for a future she didn't feel she would ever deserve? Her life was settled in everybody's mind, but why couldn't she be one of them? Why did _she_ had to be _different_?

Normally, she would have slept in the same room as Ginny. But she needed some time alone. Just this night of silence. They had a sort of guest room, where people who just stopped by or who returned from an exhausting mission could rest. She knew it would be empty, Remus and Tonks being at the latter's mother's home; Kingsley sleeping at the Ministry under his desk — supposing he'd allow himself a pause; Filius and Pomona being at Hogwarts, as well as —

Hermione shivered. Yes, she needed to reconstruct herself, to rebuilt what had been broken and close the gaps that being with Minerva had barely recovered by a cheap veneer. She knew the Headmistress was right, saying she needed to do that by herself, to learn how to re-tame that body she didn't recognise, no to love but at least to accept those carved memories she couldn't erase from her skin, nor her mind.

But God only knows how she missed her touch, her lips. Why had she talked? What if she hadn't? They had made their way to the large bed, between ravenous kisses, and she had frozen. When long fingers had brushed the marks under her shirt, she had frozen and closed her eyes, like an animal paralysed by the fear, waiting for its deathly fate. Of course, Minerva had been thoughtful like never. She had been kind, comprehensive. _It's alright, dear, it's alright._

And then… then, she had vocalised her doubts. No matter how much the young Gryffindor had apologised, had try to convince them both it was just a 'moment of distraction', _Professor McGonagall_ was back. It was no longer Minerva, but the analytic, logical, pragmatic woman who had taught her transfiguration during all those years. She felt guilty, having trespassed her role of simple mentor to become the lov— Well, it didn't really matter now, did it?

"Hermione?"

The patty voice made her spun round in surprise, eyes wide opened. The tall redhead was standing in the door frame, with pajama's pants too short for him, letting his white ankles appear. He was rubbing his eyes, from tiredness as well as astonishment.

"It's almost one thirty." A pause. A long yawn. "A bit late to come to bed don't you think?"

"I — err — I'm sorry, Fred I… didn't think I would wake anybody."

"It's alright. George and I are working on a new version of the extendable ears: it emits a small noise when someone pass by the thread, and as we put the prototype next to the front door, well, we heard someone coming." He smiled warmly. "Didn't expect it to be you, though. Weren't you staying at Hogwarts for a while?"

"Yes, well," she began, fidgeting a bit, "it was for the best to — err — come back here." She faked a smile, only to look like one of those creepy dolls in horror movies. "I missed you guys," she added, trying her best to sound joyful.

If Fred noticed the act, he didn't say anything. He just hugged her tightly, patting her back.

"Well, it's good to have you here, 'Mione. Do you want me to go fetch Harry and Ron? Ginny couldn't wait for you to come back; she said this place lacked a bit of _feminine presence_ — and I thought she was including Mom in her thoughts' process," he said with a light chuckle.

"That's very kind Fred but I'm a bit tired, I'd rather just go sleep and see everybody tomorrow morning."

"Sure, no problem. Well, have a goodnight then, I'll see you at breakfast," he said with a wink, closing the door behind him.

And she was alone. The room was not very big: there was a small bed, facing an old study and a rickety wardrobe with one door missing. The roof-light let see a clouded sky, in which one could, from time to time, catch sight of a ghostly moon. The young woman sunk into the mattress, not even bothering to change her clothes, and felt asleep, exhausted, on a pillow wet by the tears that had silently rolled down her cheeks.

* * *

She woke up in a mess. Downstairs, she could hear the humming of Molly Weasley cooking breakfast for everyone, while the slow morning chit chat was waking up around the table. She recognised Ginny's voice, smiling as she heard her grumbling about Ron not waiting for everyone to be served before stuffing himself. The response to that sounded muffled, probably by a large mouthful of eggs and sausages. The twins must have apparated right behind their mother, because Hermione heard her shriek.

It felt strange, being here again, she thought. Somehow, she had the impression she didn't really belong here anymore, but she couldn't return to Hogwarts either. She couldn't face Minerva for the time being and didn't know how she'd ever be able to handle herself in front of her. With a sigh, she crawled out of her bed, a strong headache raging under her skull like a Firewhiskey's hangover. She quickly made her way to the room she usually shared with Ginny, jumping under the cold water of the shower. So cold it was almost painful; her lips had turned purple by the time she decided to get out, freezing. It felt good, though, not feeling anything anymore but the lack of sensation from her body.

She changed her clothes, tried to domesticate her hair — in vain — and went down to the animated kitchen. She stopped at the door frame, a sheepish grin on the lips. Everyone was looking at her like she was a perfect stranger who had lost himself and had somehow ended up here. Ron was the first to react.

"'Mione?!" he said in a strangled gasp, spluttering some of the eggs he was eating. "You're back?"

There was a childish bewilderment in his voice that made her heart melt. He was looking at her amazed, his fork still in the air, like she was Santa Clause coming early to bring him his presents.

"I didn't tell them," said Fred with a large smile. "'Thought the surprise was worth it."

"You knew?" This time it was Ginny who spoke, halfway between laughing and cutting her brother's head off. "You knew and you said nothing?!" She turned to face her female friend again, a growing smile on the lips. "When did you arrive? Yesterday?"

"Very late, I'm afraid. I didn't want to wake you all," she answered softly. "It's good to be here and see you all."

"We're so happy to have you back dear," said Mrs. Weasley with her usual cheerful tone, "Sit, sit! What would you like for breakfast? Eggs? Toasts?"

"Toasts sound perfect , thanks."

Ron was already sliding aside on the bench to leave her a space between him and Harry, who welcomed her with a hug. The conversation was light-hearted a fluid between them, as if they had never been apart. It felt like home, thought Hermione with a smile. And maybe, things were going to be alright, after all.


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione didn't know how much time had passed since she had last seen McGonagall, leaving her quarters with a broken heart. If anything, it felt like an eternity. Nothing much was going on in Grimmauld Place, and she couldn't help but miss Hazel's presence as well, which was always refreshing. And the books, of course. The entire Hogwarts' library just for her, without the old Madam Pince hovering round her to be sure she didn't defaced one of the precious books. Here, the library was small and quite poor, in comparison: the only subjects who seemed to have ever interested the Black family was their own history and fame. It was all about the purebloods' society, and even though Hermione liked to learn new things, the pamphlets contained in those books, detailing how the mudbloods were a threat and an abomination, made her sick.

Her friends, oblivious to her inner uproar, were very thoughtful nonetheless. They tried their best to keep her entertained, but somehow, the brunette suspected it was also to keep her away from something else, but she couldn't put her finger on what exactly. Maybe she was just imagining things; it wouldn't have been the first time, she thought tartly, dragging herself to the room she shared with the youngest Weasley. Ginny was lying nonchalantly on her bed, a Quidditch magazine in her hands. Hearing her friend's footsteps, she lifted her head to welcome her with a warm smile.

"I see you found Ron's soft-porn," she said with a chuckle as she entered the room. "Doesn't he mind?"

"Stole it would be more precise," retorted the redhead with a wink. She closed the paper, stretching a bit before sitting on the bed, her back against the wall. "He, for once, didn't notice it," she carried on, a devilish smile on her lips as she saw the surprise growing on Hermione's features. "I believe it has to do with his mind being on something else." She let a brief pause, before adding with a childish grin: "Or should I say _someone_ else?"

Hermione sighed heavily, half-amused half-annoyed by her friend's statement. She should have known Ron wouldn't let it go this easily and that, at some point, she would need to confront him, maybe a bit harshly, to make him understand. This wasn't the worst, she thought. The worst was that she somehow had to make that clear for everybody in this house that she would never grow to become Hermione _Weasley._

"Ginny," she began with a weary voice that made the ginger lose her smile. "Your brother and I are just friends. As well as I'd love to have you as a sister-in-law," she added softly, as to assure her friend she was not as pissed off as she appeared, "this is not happening and never will be."

"I know, I'm just messing with you. I love him from the bottom of my heart but, he's not the guy for you. Not exactly the brightest bulb on the tree, my brother."

"Well, he's still —"

"Come on! I know you both! If he would certainly find a way to put up with your intellect, you would get bored out of your mind with someone like my brother, whose only diet is the chocolate frogs and only topic of conversation, Quidditch," she said laughing.

The older Gryffindor looked at her friend with a sheepish smile. She couldn't deny that what she may call the intellectual gap between them two was not really a turn on. She needed someone able to keep up with her, to have heated debate about the latest researches and discoveries in the magical world. Not exactly what Ron would expect in a relationship.

"Don't be too harsh on him, Gin'," she said, a veil of sadness upon her usually warm brown eyes. "It's not just about intellect or —"

"Like you would agree to date someone with an I.Q below 130," she retorted with a smirk.

Hermione was tired. She was frustrated being pushed away by McGonagall and the fact she didn't seem able to do any progress regarding her traumatism; true, she almost didn't wake up trashing her sheets anymore, but she still had flashbacks and nightmares she didn't dare to talk about to anybody. And those scars, those _fucking_ scars she couldn't get rid off. Maybe this was just the final annoyance that pushed her of the edge. She felt like she was in a free fall. Everything around her was muffled by the thick silence growing between them two. Ginny was looking at her flabbergasted, in complete shock.

"What?" she uttered, disconcerted by Ginny's reaction and her growing paleness. "What is it?"

But what made Hermione truly panic, was the rage she saw in the redhead's eyes as they were glaring at something behind her. Never had she seen her friend _this_ infuriated. She turned round, the words dying on her lips.

Harry was standing here, the doorknob still in his hand. He seemed as surprised as the brunette, whose brain came back to function, all of a sudden. She had said it. Admitted it. _"Ginny, I'm in love with someone else!"_ She remembered it, now. She had scream it with as much despair as exasperation, and Harry's perfect timing had brought him in the room at this precise moment_._

"You told her?" he asked, thinking about that mysterious female crush she had. Hermione knew perfectly what he was referring to, but to the young Weasley, it must have looked like something else.

She looked at him, then back at Ginny. Oh crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Ginny was stiffer than ever, already rising from the bed, pure hate dancing in her eyes. Hermione was the only one to know about their freshly started relationship. They had both trusted her, as she was the one partly responsible for it; even having been both sorted in Gryffindor, the two lovebirds had needed a little kick to step out of their shared shyness. But this? This was just ridiculous. Come on, did she really thought that Harry and her, Hermione, the best friend and never more, were… involved? A glance at the sparks escaping from Ginny's wand, as she held it so tight her joints seemed to be about to break, answered her silent question. Yes, she was thinking exactly that.

"Ginny, this is not —"

"How could you — why did — and Ron! What _Ron_ will say when — when —"

She was hysteric. So hysteric she had burst into tears and couldn't seem to stop herself from stuttering. Harry had stormed inside, trying to comfort her while processing what was happening and giving a curious look at Hermione, but he only found himself rejected by the young Weasley.

"Gin', Hermione," he said in a surprisingly calm voice. "What —" He, nevertheless, didn't really know how to address the situation. "What just happened?"

The brunette was about to answer, but Ginny was faster.

"What has happened, you bloody _Don Juan_," she hissed, her jaw so clench she was almost gnashing her teeth, "is that I just discovered Hermione rejected my brother because of your little — your little…" she took a deep breath and spat out: "— infatuation."

"What?"

"Don't act dumb with me!" The sobs were heartbreaking. "Go! Go shag her, you despicable —"

"For Christ's sake Ginny! I'm not in love with Harry, I'm in love with Min— "

A silence. A long, astonished silence.

Both Harry and Ginny were fixing her, dumbstruck. The redhead had stopped crying, her wand had left her hand to fall with a little noise on the floor; she didn't even seemed to realise it and made no move to pick it up. A strangled noise erupted from her lips, like the shocking admittance had given her hiccup. The boy for his part was obviously remembering the conversation he had had with his friend at the Three Broomsticks, because his lips formed a silent 'M'. He suddenly looked like having connected the dots, as his green eyes grew even wider.

"No. No, no, no! Wait, I — I mean — It's not —"

What could she possibly say? What could she possibly do? There was no way she would possible get out of here without telling them, she knew it.

Ginny had scrambled backwards, sinking into the mattress, like she was about to faint. She was stuttering something inaudible, her hands trembling on her lap. Harry was livid, rotted to the spot. He looked like gathering all the strength he still had inside to whisper with a strained voice:

"Hermione, is this _professor McGonagall_ we're talking about?"

She closed her eyes. Why? Why everything needed to be so screw up? Wasn't it enough, being turned down by the woman she loved? Did she really had to betray herself as well?

"Yes," she whispered painfully, "yes, I love her."

She heard her friends gasp and felt herself struggle to breathe.

"Does Ron knows?"

"No. Of course not, he would… "

Harry and Ginny seemed to have enough trouble dealing with the situation already, but Ron? No way. He would freak out, yell… Hermione knew this was the last thing to do, because the teenage boy would be hurt. She had tried to make him understand nothing would ever happen between them two, and he had some obvious difficulties grasping the idea. Hermione in love with their Transfiguration teacher? That would be the final blast. Obviously, her two friends seemed to think the same, as they silently nodded in approval.

"And McGonagall? She knows, doesn't she? That's why you come back to Grimmauld Place."

There was a slight note of deception in Ginny's voice that made the brunette feel sick. If she hadn't been rejected, would she have came back? Probably no, she'd have stayed with her beloved mentor. Seeing her friends suddenly understand they were some sort of second bet, she felt ashamed. Terribly ashamed.

"She said I could stay but I thought it was better to leave as…" The young Gryffindor was on autopilot, answering the questions like an automat. She let the end of her sentence float in the room, wondering why she had really left? Did she really believe McGonagall's statement, that she needed some time for herself? Did she withdraw because she was hurt? "She said I needed time," she finally whispered, biting her lower lip, lost in thoughts.

She remained like this, not knowing how much time had passed before she heard the mattress squeak as Ginny stood up and approached her, two thin yet incredibly strong arms engulfing her in a tight hug. Harry patted her back awkwardly, a forced smile twisting his lips. Hermione burst into tears, clutching to her friends, her body shaken by desperate sobs.

"She rejected me," she uttered, forcing the words to pass the lump in her throat.

"There there, hush now. She's —" God! How weird it was to speak about professor McGonagall in such a context. "Maybe she's the one who needs time."

* * *

Minerva was comfortably ensconced in the large leather armchair behind her desk. The hands crossed nonchalantly on her lap, she was following with a distant interest the parade of two birds near her window. More than a week had passed since her pupil's departure, and she had no idea how things were going at the Order's headquarters.

The Order's meeting had been postponed. They were getting bogged down, not finding anything new about the Death Eaters' attacks and their potential target. The recruitment was slowing down as well, to the Headmistress' displeasure. The Minister's law-enforcement officers were getting more and more violent and intrusive. It was not rare to hear that they had shown up in the middle of the night into suspect households, without any warrant. Usually, someone was strangely disappearing that same night, and nothing could be done. The press was as corrupted as the higher realms of the politics, contributing to the growing paranoia in the magical world.

The Purebloods were safe and respected. Nearly worshipped. Half-bloods had to be careful already, and many families were cutting the ties with their muggle part. The muggle-borns, for their part, were starting to get refused some services or access. Some display windows had angry signs on them, refusing those who were not from _good families_ as customers; the Ministry's flow network had been changed as well, some fireplaces allowed only for the _pures_; and the anti-muggle propaganda was gaining an alarming importance, and the caricatures describing them as _the lower race_ disfigured the walls of Diagon Alley and the wizards' newspapers.

A knock on the door draw her out of her thoughts. Merlin, she had completely forgotten about the tea with Filius and Pomona.

"Come on in," she said, rising from her chair to welcome her two friends. "I apologise my appalling memory, it slipped out of my mind."

"As we noticed," squeaked Filius with a malicious smile. "Not that I blame you for not wanting to come to our quarters, as Rosie has now invaded our living-room, thanks to Pomona's lousy so-called educational methods." That earned him an amused chuckle from Minerva, who never really understood Pomona's love for _that kind_ of plants, and a little slap on the arm by Huffelpuff's Head of House.

"Well, if you hadn't try to feed her some weedkiller," she mumbled, giving her husband an intense 'yes-I-saw-you' look.

The diminutive Charms professor feigned not to notice the ominous stare she was giving him, and moved towards the nearer chair.

"Shall we take our tea here, Minerva?"

She nodded wordlessly as she sat in her large armchair.

"Hazel," she whispered, the little elf materialising with a light 'pop' in front of the desk. "Could you please prepare us some tea and biscuits?" The creature bowed and disappeared with the same noise.

The conversation went on the Ministry and the latest articles of the Prophet, the three professors scandalised by the way the situation was developing. Hogwarts was still a safe place, but for how long? Repeatedly, the Minister had tried to interfere in the school's business, without too much success hopefully. But they couldn't help to feel it was just a matter of time before darkness shaded the castle as well.

"Any news from Miss Granger?"

The sudden question took Minerva by surprise. She felt her heart pulse race for a second, not sure if something was hidden behind that apparent innocent inquiry, but her friend's genuine concern quickly reassured her.

"No," she sighed, a hint of regret in her voice. "No news since she left for our headquarters."

"Hmm… That's odd, isn't it? I thought she was quite content to stay here, and yet, she leaves overnight."

A metallic noise cut the conversation. Hazel was standing in an arthritic posture, fiery eyes glaring straight at the Headmistress. On the floor lie the iron biscuits box that had escaped the tiny shaking hands, and the precious gingernewts. If Filius and Pomona looked at the elf with curiosity and solicitude, Minerva's face had went paler with apprehension._ Merlin, not now…_

"Hazel…"

She had no time to find what to say that the little creature draped in velvet toga was already thundering at her, leaving the portraits and the two other teachers dumbfounded.

"The Mistress _lied_! You lied to _me_!" There was a desperate note covered by anger that made the Headmistress wince. Worst, the elf seemed completely racked with a biting despondency. "You said Hazel needed to prepare the Manor because she'd come but it was just to keep Hazel out of the truth! The girl left!"

Filius and Pomona were looking at each other, uncomfortable with the argument and what was coming out of it.

"Hazel, it was for the best that —"

"Is that what you told her?" she asked scornfully, her hysteric voice trembling with rage. "That is was for the best she left the castle? In her state, do you think it is — what's the word you like to use again? Oh right: wise. How wise could it be to send that damaged girl away when she needs you the most?"

"I did not send her away, I…"

"Oh yes you did! You and your pathetic excuse for feelings did!" She let out a disdainful snort, shaking her head, sizing the witch up. "So much for that so-called Gryffindor's courage: you're not even brave enough to tell her you lo—"

"_Hazel, enough!_"

The elf stopped in mid of her speech, a surprised look on her face, as the strong dismissive tone of Dumbledore cracked like a whip. His blue eyes had lost their usual mischievousness and were now flashing with a frozen anger. The two other Heads of House were dying with embarrassment and concern for their friend, who was staring blankly at her desk, her lips set in a painful and guilty silence. Hazel left without further ado. Finally, the Headmistress rose from her chair and slowly moved towards the tray, before brewing the tea. Every soul around her, living or not, was holding its breath, waiting for an outburst, something…

But she stayed perfectly calm — to all appearances at least — and that was maybe scarier than if she had screamed. She was acting like a perfect composed housewife, who restrain herself from slapping her obnoxious husband in front of his boss when he derides even her slightest move, and go fetch the dessert in the kitchen, choking back her tears and pride. The Charms and Herbology teachers took their respective steaming cup, not daring to utter even the faintest 'thank you'. They glanced awkwardly at the tall black-haired witch who quietly sat in front of them. Her green eyes seemed to take a peculiar interest in her inkpot, as she was fixing it wordlessly, obviously lost in thoughts, long fingers curled below her chin.

After a long, agonising silence which had only been interrupted by the light clink of the spoons on the porcelain, she finally spoke, in a hollow voice.

"I took a shine to her at her first Transfiguration lesson. I don't think I ever had such a bright and eager to learn student." The way she had transfigured that match into a needle, like it was the most natural thing to do. The wand's movements were already precise and quick, the spell well articulated. And that little smile gleaming with a modest pride. Never since that day had Hermione stopped to be her star student. "I never — I was her _mentor_. The girl needed to be taken under someone's wing, and as her Head of House…" During the brunette's years in Hogwarts, Minerva often been the shoulder to lean on for her pupil. They would share a cup of tea, discussing the latest publications on _Transfiguration Today_. It never ceased to amaze the teacher, how cunning the student was. "When they found her —" Her voice broke. She swallowed, and took her teacup with a trembling hand. "I realised. Then I realised that somehow, I wanted more. That _she _wanted more." A pause. She sniggered at her own foolishness. "I _allowed_ myself to have _feelings_ for her, for a student. The worst part is that I'm not that ashamed. Not anymore, at least." A bitter laugh passed her lips. "And the girl," she said with a bitter sneer, "the girl always stares at me in complete awe, like I was her saviour, when all I did was plunging her into that ridiculous dependence towards me. _I fucked up everything_."

The last sentence imposed a shocked mutism in the audience. Minerva never swore. Never.

"It's so laughable it _sickens_ me. I should have foreseen this would never work. I crushed her like she was the most repulsive worm. And now what?" She turned to her two friends, her eyes filling with tears and her mouth trembling with sorrow as she forced a terrible laugh past them. "I find myself longing for her. How ridiculous is that? I can't be with her nor leave her. She deserves someone young, fresh; someone who will know how to take care of her. But how jealous I am… Merlin, I never thought I — but to think someone else…" She let her sentence pending, not quite daring to verbalise what the ragging anger storming inside her urged her to scream. "Maybe one of you two could go to Grimmauld Place this week? To ensure she's alright?" They nodded, starring speechless at their friend standing up. "I need to find Hazel," she breathed, looking confused, almost dazed. "Close the door when you leave, would you?" And with that, she left.

* * *

_A.N: Sooo? Any thoughts? Thanks for the reviews, it's always a pleasure to know what you think :)_


	10. Chapter 10

Filius Flitwick wasn't the kind of wizard to fidget. And yet… Yet, the diminutive Charms professor was fidgeting, not quite daring to push the narrow front door of the Order's headquarters. Usually, he would have been there already, with the others, waiting for Minerva to show up. The witch was punctual, always arriving right on the time agreed, not before, not after. He smiled faintly at that thought. She liked great entrances, even though she would never admit it.

Finally pushing the door, he hung his dark blue cloak on the hat stand. The hall was dark and ominous, as always. The portraits held their tongues with him, respecting the brilliant wizard he was, the Head of House. Ravenclaw had never been despised by the Slytherins, their intelligence and hard work earning them a rare esteem from the snakes. That, together with the fact he came from an ancient wizards' family, he could at least enter the house without getting yelled at and insulted. He knew it wasn't the case for everybody. Hermione, for instance. The girl was only left in peace when Minerva was there. She had never raised her voice with the disdainful portraits: the low, ominous brogue had sufficed to shut their mouths.

He stopped briefly before walking towards the kitchen, where the meeting would be held. If they all expected Minerva to show up, Filius felt particularly bad for one person. Hermione would be beyond simple disappointment or surprise. She'd felt rejected one more time, he thought. He didn't know what had happened that fateful night, but he could guess that things had turned out pretty… nasty. He had tried – Oh Merlin he had! — to arrange the things between his colleague and the young miss Granger. But what could he possibly do? Talking with his Scottish friend about it — after all, _he_ was the one, with Albus, to whom she used to reach in case of problem or when she just needed to talk — was obviously out of question, as she kept dodging the discussion, arguing wearily that she had work to do. Only for that Order's little reunion had she been honest and straightforward with him, admitting she simply couldn't face her right now, and that it was for the best. She wasn't completely wrong, he reluctantly thought, it would be hard for the young Gryffindor to see the object of her desires be only a few meters away from her, without the possibility, the _right_, to let her fingers amble along those beloved features. She'd have to remain quiet, while her mind was screaming and scratching in frustration against that delicious prison love sometimes was.

"Goodnight everyone."

His voice was less cheerful than usual. Perhaps was it just more formal in a way, but it held a solemnity everybody was unaccustomed to. Even the Charms professor. He felt like a stranger to his own body, as that low voice carried on.

"Minerva won't be able to attend tonight's session," he said, motioning towards the end of the large table. "She has her work cut out, and —" He paused for a brief moment, his blue eyes locking into two chocolate brown ones. "— some private matters that are keeping her _busy._" Slightly lifted eyebrows and wider irises told him _she_ had got it.

The meeting lasted more than two hours, during which they mainly discussed missions regarding the Ministry of Magic. Nobody seemed naive enough to still have faith in the institution that lived in paranoia. The anti-muggle propaganda was mentioned but it seemed nothing could be done. They had unglued the aggressive papers that shown grotesque caricatures of the _lower race_. But it was pointless. The offensive pictures kept coming back, the newspapers' hate campaign had loosen numerous tongues in the pubs and in Diagon Alley. It felt hopeless.

It was already late in the evening when they concluded the meeting. Kingsley and other aurors such as Lupin and Tonks quickly apparate, and the inhabitants of the house were slowly returning to their respective rooms, biding the small wizard a good night.

"Miss Granger, a word if I may?"

Oh Merlin, he didn't want to do that. He knew how awkward and unpleasant it would be, for him, but for the girl as well. If it was up to him, he would have sent Hazel, as she seemed to be quite fond of the young Gryffindor. But the elf was still sulking and Minerva barely managed to get her to accomplish her work without a plethora of protestations and annoyed sighs. The little creature had shown herself to be quite inventive in term of insults. Always cunningly disguised of course, albeit not well enough for the teachers.

The brunette turned around, a little frown on her tired face. She looked warily at the Ravenclaw head of house, not quite daring to make assumptions about what topic he wanted to discuss with her. Surely it couldn't be what she thought. He wouldn't know, would he?

"Of course, professor," cam the soft answer, as she went back to her chair. They both remained silent for several awkward seconds that made the witch grow more suspicious about that _talk. _"What is it that you wish to discuss?" she finally asked, faking her best smile when inside, she felt like a stone had crashed in her stomach.

"I just wanted to check on you, if everything's alright," he calmly said. Hermione was about to retort a pre—chewed answer to say she appreciate the concern but was fine, really, but the Charms professor added what felt like a slap. "Your departure from the castle was quite… unexpected."

A nervous twitch shook the wall of appearances she had built and crushed her smile, which felt down her face like rain on a window. _He can't possibly know what happened. She wouldn't have told him, she– _A hiccup escaped her lips, which had lost their colour. She was wan, and with the faint light of the kitchen, almost looked like a revenant.

"Well, I —" she began feeling her mouth suddenly dry, not quite sure what she would tell him.

"I hope you won't find me contumelious if I tell you, you seem anything but content about your actual situation in Grimmauld Place?"

The voice was soft, caring. Hermione stared at him eyes wide open, not _able_ to utter the faintest sound. The teacher seemed to notice, because he simply nodded, his hands crossed on his lap while his blue gaze detailed the young student like she was a problem to solve.

"Of course, you have your friends here," he carried on, speaking slowly as if lost in thoughts for a moment, "but it doesn't really feel like home, does it?"

She lowered her eyes, slightly shaking her head. No, no matter how hard her friends tried, it couldn't possibly compare to Hogwarts, to the time passed with her mentor. Even if she loved her fellow Gryffindors more than anything, she couldn't help but longing for that particular lioness.

"It does not, no," she finally muttered, so low it was almost inaudible.

She could feel the insistent gaze burning her cheeks, but add nothing more. She had never signed for that kind of chat, after all.

"Hermione…" The sudden use of her first name made her lift her eyes with surprise and confused look on her face. "You seem so unhappy, why did you leave? At Hogwarts, you —"

"Why don't you ask _her_?"

The bitter tone cut the small professor, who closed his mouth without retorting anything to that atypical cheek display from the school's best student. _She's hurt._

She'd had enough. She respected the Head of Ravenclaw, liked to discuss with him about his subject, but personal matters? No. She had a hard time speaking about it at all, even with her best friends; so a teacher who was an acquaintance of the Headmistress? No way. She had been the one to end this: she would be the one to talk about it, to explain it.

"Because _she_'s the one who told you to come check on me, isn't she?" Hazel eyes were glooming ominously, daring the professor to contradict her. "You can tell her I won't attend the next Order's meeting, so she won't have to find more lame excuses for not coming."

"Hermione, Minerva is worried about you. She cares for you, that's why she…"

"Oh, I know," she snorted, pain making her throat feel like every word was scratching it while she spoke. "Trust me professor, I know just too well how she _cares." _The mocking tone made him shiver. The brunette usually warm features were now wincing with a resentment that didn't become her.

"She does, Hermione. She really does."

The laugh that escaped those young lips was bone chilling.

"Yeah, right," she said, whipping disillusioned tears from her eyes, "she certainly has a strange way of showing it."

"You could come back to the castle, I'm sure —"

"No," she cut abruptly, her brown eyes suddenly dead serious locked into her professor's. "I'm staying here, as boring as it may be, but I'm not crawling back to her and begging —" Her voice broke momentarily, stumbling across the word that tasted bitter on her tongue. "I've played my part. If she does care, which I doubt, she can come herself, but I certainly won't grovel before her. I'm done with that."

* * *

Loud footsteps were to be heard when Hermione made her way upstairs, nearly fleeing from the diminutive teacher. She got her usual share of contempt, a hail of abuse beating down on her back as she quickly passed next to the enraged portraits.

The door of Harry and Ron's room swung open, nearly coming out of its hinges as Hermione slammed it back shut, the two boys looking at her wide-eyed with astonishment. She had always been the quiet one of the trio. The one to control her emotions the best she could, not to give in pure and raw anger. And yet, there she was, standing in front of them, radiating with a cold fury that sent shivers down their spines.

"We need to leave," she articulated through clenched teeth.

"Hermione, what are you — what happened?"

None of the boys really dared to go to her, as she was trembling with an overwhelming wrath, but also what looked like the deepest sorrow. Her eyes were veiled with the shadows of the tears she wouldn't let cross her lips.

"I've thought about it." It was a half-lie. She had indeed thought a lot about their mission and how they would finish what they had begun. Their hunt for the horcruxes needed to be concluded soon, as the Dark Lord was gaining more and more power. "About the _you-know-what_." They arched their brows, caught off their guard by the topic which was rarely discussed in Grimmauld Place, due to the number of eavesdroppers, but nodded nonetheless, motioning for her to continue. "You've heard how things are progressing in the Ministry," she said in a low, slightly calmer voice. "It's harder and harder to get into it if you don't work there. They control nearly everybody, people get interrogated…" She let the sentence pending, remembering with what great diligence _she _had been questioned by Bellatrix Lestrange. "And the propaganda against muggles and mud — _muggle-borns_…"

"She's right," said Ron. "Dad is already looked warily at, and we're pure-bloods. Well, _blood-traitors_," he added with a weak smile. "The Ministry is falling. It'll be hard enough getting in there, not saying getting out… Better do it as soon as possible."

"But we're not even sure Ombr— the _toad_ will have _it_ with her," said Harry. "Maybe we should try breaking in her house or…"

"And what about the magical wards? I've read a lot about them, there's no way we could get rid of them fast enough without being caught. That is, if we manage to get rid of them at all; even if _the toad _is not the brightest witch we met, you know where her allegiance lies. She certainly has a well protected house."

"So infiltrate the Ministry," said the ginger, pensively scratching his chin. "Another easy-peasy thing to do."

The three of them chuckled, sadly reminded however, how low their chances to succeed were.

"She will have it with her," said the girl with assurance. "We just need to find a way to snatch it from her. I already brewed some polyjuice at Hogwarts," she said casually.

"You what?"

She was the brightest witch of her age, they were perfectly aware of it. But still, she always found some ways to surprise them, even after all this time.

"It was child play really." Her tone was a bit impatient but the boys both noticed the hidden pride behind it. "I mean, we did it during second year."

"_You_ did it, mate. Harry and I only went for a talk with our favourite blond-haired."

"Well, anyway, the potion is ready. I guess I could just ask for Hazel to bring it, I'm sure she would be delighted to be in league with us, and I trust her not to say a word about it."

"Hazel?"

"It's Min— _McGonagall,_ professor McGonagall's elf. Quite a funny one, I must say. You'd love her."

"I don't know… Even if we can trust her Hermione, if McG were to ask her anything, she would _have_ to tell her. It's like a magical bound. If she's her elf…"

"By that time, we'll already be done with the Ministry, Ron." _In one way or another. Let's hope it'll work. _"Then we'll be on the run. We can't come back here after that."

"But… But what about my family? Am I supposed to leave them, just like that? Without actually telling them that —"

"_Ronald_!" Hermione hissed, annoyed. "There's still Bill and Fleur's wedding next week. It's not like we were leaving _tonight_ for Merlin's sake! You still have a little time with your family before we go."

"A week, that's not much —"

"Not much?" The voice was suddenly cold, shrill. "_Not much_? Are you ser— You still got time with your family, just be grateful for that! An entire week, I'd kill for that!"

"Wow, sorry to care about them!" the ginger retorted, on the defensive. "Not my fault if we don't have the same family relationships; you didn't even go check on your parents since your return."

"I didn't— _God_!" This was unbelievable. Simply unbelievable. She looked at him angrily, feeling a lump growing in the back of her throat. "I _obliviated_ them! They don't know they have a daughter, I don't _exist_ for them!" she yelled, salty water running down her cheeks without her bothering whipping it away. "What?" They were both looking at her, flabbergasted and in obvious pain for their friend. "You thought that anti-muggle propaganda was a joke, didn't you? Just articles in the Prophet or signs in Diagon Alley? How long do you think it would have taken _them_ to find my parents and question them about my whereabouts?"

"But the Order, surely they could have…"

"And then, what if any of them had been interrogated? Then what? It's so easy to get in one's mind… You don't know how _persuasive_ they are, oh!, you have no idea…" She bit her lips, her fingers unconsciously ghosting along her forearm, where crude shame had been etched. "The less people know about this, the safer it is. I did what needed to be done, that's all. There's no point discussing it further," she breathed distantly, emerging from her daydreaming. "Just enjoy you family whilst you still can, instead of bemoaning it's not enough. It will never be enough, no matter what, so just make the best of the time you've been granted," she finished, with a bit of a hollow voice.

There was a pregnant pause, the two boys glancing shyly at each other while the brunette seemed lost in thoughts. She had studied every single spell about the memory. Altering it was much easier than the opposite, she knew it. She often wondered what she'd do about it, once the war over. The more days passed, the more she felt she wouldn't making it alive, and that maybe, they wouldn't be able to defeat Voldemort one more time. He had gathered forces amongst the wizard population. Not just the old followers, brand new and shiny ones as well. And the Order? The Order had lost Dumbledore. True, they had McGonagall. _Minerva._ Still, despite the bitterness, the copper taste, the name felt like honey in hot tea, like the caress of a hot, Summer breeze. Hermione sighed loudly, wearily rubbing her face.

"Hermione, about your parents," Harry softly tried, Ron still staring at her, his ears bright red from embarrassment.

"I'd better go get some sleep." She managed to fake a tired smile, her lips trembling a bit. "We need to focus on our mission, I — I'll manage to distract Ginny so you'll have tomorrow morning to think further about who to impersonate to get into the Ministry. We'll plan this further before the wedding; I'll find something. 'Night."

And as sudden as she had come, she left, the old floorboards creaking beneath her feet.

* * *

"Boys?"

There was a small, timid knock on the door going with the whisper. Ron grumbled, as he looked at the clock: it was way past midnight already, and his sleep had never been put that much to the test. Harry was still yawning, struggling to find his glasses, when Hermione pounced into the room, nearly knocking the redhead off.

"Careful," he hissed. "How can you still be so jumpy? It's the third night in a row we're doing this; I've never been this tired!"

"There was a noise in the hallway," she retorted. "We wouldn't want someone to find us now, would we?" For all answer she got an exhausted mumbling from her friends. "Anyway, I limited the risks," she added, with a childish glee in her eyes she usually shown when learning something new or solved a riddle, "they all got a little extra with their dinner: sleeping pills."

Ron looked at her like she was speaking Chinese all of a sudden, not quite grasping what a sleeping pill was. Harry, as for him, was trying to repress his laughter.

"You drugged them?"

"Well, the challenge was for them not to notice," she said amused, obviously restraining herself from blurting out her entire thought process and how she had managed it. "A pity I can't do the same with those dreadful portraits, as they seem to be particularly fond of me."

They looked at her amused, and the three of them sat on one bed, the small space between them quickly covered with notes — Hermione's, mostly.

"So, I was thinking about Mafalda Hopkirk. She's working for the Improper Use of Magic Office, so it shouldn't be that hard to sneak on the toad." She marked a small pause, inwardly wondering how they would actually manage to simply ambush three ministry workers without getting caught. The infiltration, then, was a different kettle as well. _We're suicidal._ "Ron? Have you found your 'maintenance employee'?"

"Reginal Cattermole," he said gloomily. "Poor fella's gonna have his wife questioned this week; they think she's a muggle-born. 'Reckon the toad will be in charge."

They both turned towards Harry, who shrugged his shoulders.

"They're not really inclined to let me leave the house, you know…"

"Right. Well, luckily I had prepared several backups, just in case," said the brunette, taking several 'files' from her bag. "Here, this one: Albert Runcorn," she articulated, as if the name tasted somehow disgusting on her tongue. "Very zealous employee of the Muggle-Borns Registration Commission." Harry winced as he took the notes she had gathered on the man. "Yeah, I thought you might like this one," said the brunette apologetically. "So we're good?"

"Yeah, just have to find a way to get hair and ensure they won't show up as well."

"I suggest we begin with Mafalda. Then I could somehow approach Runcorn, or even Cattermole. With the invisibility cape, it shouldn't be _that _hard."

"But then what? What if they wake up or…"

"Trust me, with the horse sedative I procured ourselves, they'll be lost into sweet oblivion for 12 good hours."

"You do realise you're kinda scary sometimes, right?"

The brunette grinned at Ron, remembering how he had said something similar during their first year. _How time flies_, she thought.

"I would have gone with _resourceful_, but scary's not so bad. Anyway, what we need now is to slowly start packing our things. Ron, do you think you could get us the tent you had for the Quidditch World Cup?"

"Sure, Mom and Dad never use it anyway. They won't notice it's gone."

"Perfect. I've already enchanted my bag, I'll put our stuff in it," she said, showing them the little pink bag.

"And the polyjuice? Has Hazel already…?" Harry asked.

"No, I can't summon her, as I'm not her… well… _mistress._ And going to Hogwarts is just out of the question."

"Why?"

The redhead's confused voice made the two other Gryffindors shift slightly, looking awkwardly at each other. Harry knew very well why Hogwarts was not an option. Besides the fact that McGonagall would question the presence of any of the Golden Trio in the castle, it was also that the brunette simply couldn't face her mentor after having been pushed away so harshly. But Ron was oblivious to all this, as always, and they couldn't tell him. Even Harry, who was far more indulgent than the two girls with the ginger, had been forced to admit he wouldn't deal well with the news. It was hard enough already to make him get over Hermione; hearing she had fallen head over heels for their Transfiguration teacher, was quite a different matter.

"Well, professor McGonagall would see us, obviously," she answered, rolling her eyes. It made the trick, but Harry could hear how tremulous her voice had gone when saying the Headmistress' name.

They discussed several other details before returning into Morpheus's sweet and soothing embrace.

* * *

The next day, Hermione was sealing a small envelope, addressed to Hazel, strongly hoping it would not be intercepted by the elf's employer. In the letter, she was asking for the little creature to mail her the potion she had put in her care before leaving. She also apologised for the abrupt departure. The brunette didn't know if it was really wise to explain the reasons as to why she had left overnight, considering the temper of her diminutive friend. If Minerva hadn't told her already, Hazel would probably be furious, she thought. But after everything the elf had done for her, after all the compassion and understanding she had shown, the Gryffindor owed her the truth. She didn't go into details, briefly writing something about a quarrel with the Headmistress and the need to leave the castle.

Harry had kindly offered her to take Hedwig for that mission, but the owl was far too recognisable and wouldn't go unnoticed around the castle. Reluctantly, the Trio agreed they'd send Pigwidgeon, Ron's hyperactive pet. True the little fluffy owl was not quite a master of discretion, but it would proudly carry out the task asked from it.

When the redhead had tried to explain to his owl who the letter was addressed to, emphasising the fact it wasn't to be seen and therefore, had to stay out of the way of the Great Hall and Hogwarts' Headmistress, the owl had started to jump around and chirp in strident, excited cries, almost knocking itself out as it collided with the ceiling in a loud thud.

They had let the ball of feathers take the letter anyway, watching it leave in a chaotic flight, while Hedwig was pouting in a corner, ignoring them for the rest of the day.

Several hours later, a small 'pop' was to be heard as a little elf, draped in lustrous toga, appeared in the middle of Hermione's room, causing her to jump in surprise.

"Hazel?" she breathed, her eyes as wide as plates glaring anxiously at the door. Ginny had left just a moment ago, for the kitchen it seemed, but the brunette feared she'd quickly made her way back to the room. And how would she explain the elf?_ Minerva's personal elf_? "Where's Pigwidgeon?" she added, concern lacing her strangled voice. If the owl had been seen, her beloved mentor wouldn't be long to apparate in Grimmauld Place and demand an explication. Or she would send Filius. In both case, everything would definitely be screwed up between her Transfiguration teacher and her. And Ron? Oh, Ron would get _mad_ if anything happened to his scatterbrained pet.

"Still haven't lost your habit of over thinking everything, have you?" The elf tilted her head on the side, giving the witch an amused look. "I thought it would be safer to take care of this —" She shown the large flask, which was filled with polyjuice. "— myself. The owl seemed pretty… reckless. He's on his way, though."

Hermione sighed in relief, carefully taking the potion the elf was presenting her.

"It's good to see you, Hazel," she said, smiling. "I trust professor McGonagall doesn't know of you presence here?"

She was answered with a disdainful snort. The elf had her arms crossed on her chest and was wandering in the room, looking with a distant interest at the different objects decorating it. Her long fingers brushed the covers of a pile of books on the girl's bedside table, a faint grin on her lips as she read the titles: _Advanced guide to Transfiguration, Metamorphosis Vol. II & III, How to animate an object…_ And last but not least: _Hogwarts: A History._

"Oh no, of course she does not," she said, lost in her thoughts. "Too busy," she added after a pause, an exasperate wince twitching her features. The brunette nodded at the word, not believing it either.

"I see."

"Besides, we're not really on good terms right now."

The witch arched her eyebrows. She had witnessed how Hazel was different from the other elves who served in the castle — or from any elf, for that matter. The relationship she had with Minerva was quite uncommon, unheard of even, and the young Gryffindor had often wondered how far the elf actually dared to push. Surely, no one would be foolish enough to ever _test _the Headmistress' patience, but somehow, the student suspected Hazel to be this one special living-soul to have this… privilege.

"How come?"

"We… disagreed on your departure."

Hermione looked at her a moment in silence, the words sinking in.

"Sorry?" she managed to say. "I don't see how —"

"I was upset and I…" the elf blushed a little, her big hears flattening slightly on the sides of her head. She was resolutely standing with her back to the brunette. "Well, I might have been a bit _pushy_," she admitted, a sheepish yet amused grin on her lips, as she turned around to face her interlocutor.

"How come I don't find it too hard to believe?" Hermione gave a light chuckle, remembering the many elf's quips she had had the chance to witness during her stay at the magical school. "Anyway, what happened?"

The diminutive creature looked at her a moment, pursing her lips as if pondering _how_ to answer that without giving too much away. After all, even if she was sometimes nerve-racking, the Headmistress was still — and would remain so till the very end — her mistress. Her nerve-racking but cherished mistress.

"I was… sad you left. The mistress did not tell me that you…" She took a deep breath. "Well, it doesn't really matter. I just ended up berating her about…"

"About?"

Yeah, about what? Hazel clenched her fists, with the urge to punch herself. It wasn't her place, she thought. It wasn't her place to speak about the mistress' matters. She had no right. And yet… Yet, she wanted nothing more but to tell the girl in front of her everything. To tell her how a veil of sadness that covered the emerald eyes since she had left; how she had heard Filius and Pomona's worries, _Albus'_ worries; how she had to clean not only the empty glasses but the empty bottles of whiskey, because it was the only thing that seemed to soothe her mistress' sorrow.

But she couldn't.

She mustn't.

Would Minerva ever know?

"You," she finally said, biting her lips, already regretting it. "About you."

Hermione opened her mouth, but no words escaped. About her? So… so that meant, that _had _to mean that…

"I should go."

The elf looked almost panicked, feeling trapped under the brunette's insistent gaze.

"They'll notice my absence, I —"

"Wait!"

A cry. A plea. A desperate plea.

"Please Hazel, just —"

What? What would she ask the elf? To help her? To give her some of that delusional but yet so warm hope, to held against her when darker times would come?

"Just — Just tell me: is she…? Does she...?"

The servant closed her eyes, as if trying to dodge an upcoming migraine.

"If she hated you, she would not flee you."

Hermione felt her eyes fill with tears, her hand silencing the wave of sobs that was building in the back of her throat. She let it wash painfully against her trembling figure that was kneeling pitifully on the cold floor, as Hazel disappeared with a muffled 'pop'.

* * *

_A.N: I got some really lovely reviews — thanks again! ;) I hope you'll like this chapter, even though Minerva isn't really present (not directly at least). You'll see her again soon enough, I promise ;)_


	11. Chapter 11

The wedding celebration was in full swing. Bill and Fleur were joyfully dancing in the middle of the crowd cheering them, hands clapping in rhythm with the Celtic music that elated even the shyest dancers. The tent let the sweet Summer breeze ruffle the guests, and the acidulous perfume of the cakes and pastries intoxicated more than one. The glasses were magically refilled, so that soon, nobody was glued with shyness to a chair, and everybody was dancing, exhilarated by the alcohol. The laugh was contagious, and even if they all knew there were dark times ahead, the party smelt of freedom and insouciance. It felt _good_.

If Harry was well occupied between gathering some information about Dumbledore's life and enjoying the evening with Ginny, Ron was getting drunker and drunker with his siblings, laughing coarsely at some of the twins' jokes. Hermione, for her part, was wandering aimlessly in the crowd, loosing herself in the human wave that was slowly, softly, pushing her from on all sides of the tent. She liked how it felt, not to care. To just let the booze do its job, tickling her brain and adding a seductive twinkle in her eyes. That, and the red dress she was wearing… The brunette didn't go unnoticed.

In her slightly drunk walk, she bumped into someone, already stammering a confused apology as a her cheeks blushed a little — even though not only from the embarrassment.

"It's okay," came the dreamy voice, "I think there are some wrackspurts here."

Luna looked at the brunette with a large smile. Even if the two were diametrically opposed with their characters, they got along quite fine, and the Gryffindor appreciated the carefree attitude of the Ravenclaw, as well as her unconditional acceptance.

"Wrack—? What do they look like?"

"_Wrackspurts._ They're invisible," she said very seriously, seeming pleasantly surprised to be asked about the subject, "but don't worry: they just make the brain go a bit fuzzy." Hermione nodded, amused, wondering if maybe that was simply the wizard excuse for being completely plastered. "Would you like to dance?"

The brunette was a bit taken aback by the sudden change of subject, but shrugged her shoulders.

"Why not," she answered, chuckling. "But I must warn you, I'm not the most confident nor the most experienced dancer."

The blonde had a loud belly laugh hearing that, and she casually took her hand in hers, already dragging her towards the dance floor.

"Who do you think I am? Fred Astaire? Come on, let's shake things up," she said a bit too enthusiastically.

_Well, the 'blue dragon' cocktail seemed to have been to her liking as well._

The music had changed to something more catchy and somehow, more sensual too. Hermione didn't mind, not being particularly fond of Celtic tunes, but she was surprised to feel Luna's arms around her neck, and see the girl swaying in a quite — she had to admit it — alluring way. Her own hands find their way up to the blonde's waist, the two girls attracting more than one gaze in the audience.

On the other side of the tent, Harry and Ginny were looking at the circling couple, quite entertained by what they were seeing.

"Is Luna…?"

"Gay? I have no idea," admitted Ginny, "we're good friends but she never gave me to understand that she was into girls."

Brief pause.

"Well, neither did Hermione," she added, suddenly wondering._ I thought Luna was into nargles but maybe…_

"Well, the two certainly are cute," said the boy with a smile, happy to see his best friend let herself go for once.

"Mm-mm," said the redhead, nodding.

They both took a sip of their drink, absently playing with the straw floating in the glass.

"They'd form a cute couple."

"Yeah. Yeah, _cute_," said the youngest Weasley, chewing the straw with a little frown. "But definitely not as well-matched as Hermione with old _McGonaga—_"

The straw escaped her lips with a mouthful of fizzy cocktail, as she _felt_ the said woman right behind her. The face of the teenager was suddenly as red as their friend's dress, as she turned slightly, facing her doom. The Scottish witch was peering at her over her glasses, trying her best to suppress the amused smirk that was rising on her lips. The boy for his part had vanished quicker than ever, leaving his stunned girlfriend rooted to the spot, stuttering something — but what, Minerva wasn't able to catch. _What a gentleman._

"Ah, miss Weasley," she said very slowly, in her low, goosebumps-inducing voice, "enjoying ourselves, are we?"

"I — err — yes, sure, professor. Great night, isn't it?" she stammered, a sheepish smile on her trembling lips.

"Great night, yes," agreed the Headmistress, an incandescent glint lighting her green irises as her eyes fell on a certain brunette. "Great night indeed."

Ginny caught her gaze and her smile widened. Well, they were not at Hogwarts, were they? She could as well take one for the team, and help her friend with her love life, even if it meant Transfiguration classes would be very awkward at the start of the new academic year. She took a deep breath and swallowed the end of her booze in one gulp. _Brace yourself, detentions are coming!_

"So," she began, the alcohol dangerously boosting her confidence, "enjoying the show," she even dared to arbour a satisfied smirk, "are we?"

The animagus turned herself back to the redhead, an eyebrow arched ominously. Wordlessly, her eyes leisurely stared a the empty glass, then back at her student, who was now sinking under her piercing gaze.

"I — I meant Hermione." The second eyebrow was lifting now. "No, not like — err — enjoying her, I mean —" God she was going to faint. Why, why, _why_? Why did she _always _need to put herself in such situations, _why_?"Well, it was nice seeing you professor, have a nice evening," she blurted out, so hastily the said professor almost didn't understand it, and she left, practically running towards Harry, grabbing him harshly and disappearing outside the tent, leaving a surprised yet amused Minerva on the spot.

She snorted, nonchalantly bringing her glass to her curling lips, as her eyes were back to follow her dancing star student. The Headmistress liked how the two young bodies were moving fluently across the dance floor, unaware of the eyes upon them. They were cute, she had to recognise it. _But definitely not as well-matched as…_ She smiled lightly and moved in the crowd.

"I'm going to get a drink, would you like something?"

"No thanks Luna, I think I'll just rest on a chair for a bit."

The Ravenclaw nodded, smiling a bit more it was possible, when she saw their Transfiguration teacher heading in their direction.

"Oh this song is really nice, you should stay here a little longer, I'm sure you'll like it," she said winking, before disappearing between other dancers, like in a dream.

Hermione frowned slightly, wondering what it was all about. Well, surely the song that was beginning now was catchy but—

"Finished dancing already? That's a shame, it was quite pleasant to watch."

The low, seductive brogue caressed her neck, and immediately, her body shivered in appreciation. She couldn't be angry anymore. Not against that woman. Not now that she was here. In her loneliness, yes, she was enraged, but now? Not now. A single word, the faintest whisper crossing those beloved lips, and her heart was at peace.

Hermione gasped when she felt the silky robes brushing against her the pale back her red dress had left unguarded, to Minerva's great delight. She inhaled slowly and deeply, intoxicated by the perfume she had sought so many times in her dreams during the last weeks; she felt light-headed, drunk. The world was suddenly spinning in the right direction, and she just wanted to dance forever, elated by the mesmerising scent of the woman she loved.

Long fingers skimmed across the scars, the girl arching under the smooth touch. There was one cicatrix, one only, that she couldn't face yet. Her mentor knew which one, and green eyes briefly noted the apparent pristine forearm of her dearest pupil, smiling bitterly at how well secrets were kept between them two. One of the mark that had desacralised the virginal skin of the brunette ran along her spine, loosing itself at the base of the neck. A thoughtful hand pushed the bushy hair aside, and a whimper escaped Hermione's rosy lips, as Minerva's soft ones slowly kissed the uneven skin.

"I've thought about you." The whisper tickled against her neck. The younger witch closed her eyes, etching the words in her memory, wanting to take the feeling of the hot breath running along her skin with her, always. "A lot."

"You never left my mind," she answered, biting her lower lips to suppress a moan. _God, those hands!_

She felt the lips curl in an appreciative smile against her neck, as her mentor was nuzzling against her fragile shoulders.

It was peaceful. An enticing peacefulness she didn't want to leave. Nobody existed in that moment but them two, and it felt like one.

When she opened her eyes, about to turn around and press those cherished lips with hers, the world was burning.

Literally.

The soft fingers which were only seconds ago leisurely wandering along her skin, tightened their grip on her shoulder, forcing Hermione to kneel, a gasp of surprise escaping her lips at the feel of her mentor's unsuspected strength. Her hair rose on her neck as she felt the breeze of a curse passing where she would still be standing if not for the older witch's quick reaction. The table on their left exploded with the impact, pieces of wood flying everywhere.

"You're alright?"

The concerned but yet stoical voice, caressed her cheek, as Minerva was slightly leaning on her, in a protective embrace.

"Yeah I'm — Thanks."

She could _feel_ the satisfied smile without even needing to look at her lover.

"My pleasure."

They tried to find a way out of the chaos of screams and curses, running half crouched down between the tables and scattered chairs. Suddenly, Hermione froze, livid.

"The bag," she squeaked, mortified, "I forgot my bag!"

The Transfiguration master turned around to face her, throwing several spells at a Death Eater, dodging the attacks.

"A ba— now Hermione, I _strongly_ doubt this is the time," she said hastily.

"You don't understand, there's — I got to find it!"

"Hermione! Don't —"

Too late. The girl had escaped from her grip and was already running in the opposite direction without turning back. _Bloody Gryffindors!_

The bag, the bag, where was that stupid bag? The brunette was crawling under tables, fear and adrenaline propelling her with a strength she didn't know she had. There were ashes and blood everywhere already, and the strong smell of iron and carbonised flesh made her gag.

There, she had found it. Stretching her arm to grab the small purse, she winced painfully when shattered glass cut her skin, as a spell had made the pile of champagne flutes fall next to her. She stayed motionless for a minute, clenching her teeth to repress a scream. Several splinters were lodged in her hand, blood already spilling out of the wounds. With unsteady movements, her fingers trembling with a mixture of pain and panic, she carefully took the glass splinters out, before quickly grabbing the bag. Looking from under the tablecloth, she saw jets of light crashing all around her, briefly lighting the cloud of dust that was inside the tent. But still, is she was fast enough…

She ran. She ran like she had never ran before, to get out. Throwing spells blindly, she jumped on the ground to avoid a curse. _Merlin, that was close._ She needed to find Harry and Ron, and leave, but a part of her wanted to stay, to return to the softness of Minerva's lips brushing against her skin.

She extended her wounded hand to grab her wand that had escaped her grip when she had fell. She was rooted to the spot with cold horror, when she saw long black boots with sharp high heels in front of her. She had no time to react that her hand was already crushed by the boot, and the wand, pushed aside. Hermione let out a cry of agony, pain radiating from her hand to her entire body like electricity.

"Well well, look at that," said the high pitched voice, madness lacing every word, "isn't that my favourite _mudblood_."

Hermione felt the word slap her, burn her mind again; she could almost feel the scar heat up on her forearm. Bellatrix Lestrange was proudly standing before her, her dark eyes gleaming ominously, mad pleasure lighting the piercing irises. The girl jerked her hand off the boot, wincing from the pain. She pitifully tried to back off, her body shaking with uncontrollable shivers.

"Oh, did I scare you?" The childish voice exploded in a blood-chilling roar of laughter. She pounced on the brunette who let out a shriek of utter terror as she felt a strong hand grab her hair and forced her head to tilt backwards. "But we had a good time, back at the Manor, didn't we?" The suggestive voice was a poison cleverly distilled in the young ears. The Gryffindor whimpered at the memory, shifting slightly beneath the Death Eater, to the greatest amusement of the later. "Tell me my pet: how much did you miss me?" Hermione bit her lower lip so hard, blood started dripping, drawing a red trail on her chin. _Do not talk to her. Do not answer her. You know what happens when you answer her. You know if you enter her games, she'll — _Bellatrix's smirk grew even wider at the sight of the girl trembling in anticipation, and yet, beating herself up to be worthy of that so overrated Gryffindor's courage.

The raven-haired witch leant closer, nuzzling against the brunette's collarbone. She could _feel_ her fear, the pulse racing in dread. To have the girl pinned under her robes was a turn-on in itself, but to know that she'd later chastise herself, ashamed by her body's reactions to the older witch's touch… _That_ made Bellatrix's head feel dizzy already.

She slowly licked the girl's chin, almost moaning as she felt the iron taste on her tongue. Hermione turned her head sideways, closing her eyes that were already burning with tears.

"No need to play coy," the sultry voice sounded almost like a warning, pure lust aching behind every word. "We both know how easily I get you in the end, don't we?" The obscene cackle echoed in her mind.

The Gryffindor tried to free herself once more, only to find her wrists caught in a firmer grip, meant to hurt. No doubt that would leave bruises, like it always did with the dark witch.

"Still fighting, are you?" A finger brushed the pristine forearm, uncovering the word that had been etched in the skin. "But tell me _darling_, did you forget you are _mine_?"

"I'm not _yours_!" Hermione screamed, her eyes snapping open only to find a sniggering Bellatrix peering down at her, her tongue watering ruby lips.

"I beg to differ," she simply said, leisurely brushing the girl's mouth, forcing her tongue inside as a shocked gasp allowed her entrance.

The younger witch couldn't move. Just like in the Manor, she was petrified, her unresponsive mouth not even able to form the faintest plea. And she had found that begging didn't help the slightest, as the Death Eater _loved_ to be supplicated.

She could just wait. Wait and think of something pleasant. Minerva's face instantly appeared in her mind, a soothing smile curling her lips. _Just think it's her. Just think about her touch and not— _She stiffened as she felt Bellatrix's hand graze the area between her breasts. A guilty moan escaped her lips as a thumb rubbed against hardening nipples. It was wrong, so wrong. But she couldn't help how her back arched in sinful delight. It was _sick. She_ was sick.

"So you did miss me." She could feel the lips ravaging her skin briefly curl in a satisfied smile, the hot whisper dancing in her ears. Sharp teeth bit her, tasting blood again, as a small cry cursed her lips, quivering with both shame and pleasure.

_Think of her. Don't — Just think of Minerva._ She pictured her mentor's touch, remembering how soft, how thoughtful she had been. Bellatrix was _rough._ This was lust, and nothing more. With Minerva, it was—

"Love."

The Death Eater had suddenly frozen, straightening up a bit, her eyes staring at the girl trapped underneath, bewilderment darkening her irises. Hermione opened her eyes as well, surprise by the sudden lack of… contact.

But most of all, by the word that had just crossed the devilish lips. _Oh no. No, no, no, no— _A large smirk rose, and Voldemort's first lieutenant gave a low chuckle. The brunette went livid, as if all heat had left her body at once; she was so cold everything felt numb. Her first reflex was to deny it, even if she knew that as a master of legilimency, Bellatrix had seen absolutely _everything_. She didn't get the time to, though, as she was cut by her captor.

"My, my, aren't we a naughty girl," she began, her eyes flashing with what looked like ice cold anger. Like _jealousy._ "McGonagall, eh? Tell me, _my pet_, did I not punished you enough last time that you fantasise about detention with the old hag?"

"You are nothing compared to her," Hermione managed to breath, the throat choked with anger and hate. "Nothing."

A harsh slap across her face was Bellatrix's first answer. The brunette flinched, trying her best to contain the pain and the growing terror. A strong hand caught her by the throat, pressing hard on it, long nails embedded in her skin.

"Am I, now?" The raven-haired witch hissed at her face. "How… _touching_ it is, really. If I am nothing compared to you _beloved_ teacher," she stretched the word with disgust, "then tell me why _she_ can't touch you like _I_ do?"

The brunette's eyes filled up with tears and she bit her lips, not able to answer. It didn't matter, as the Death Eater could violate her mind without any resistance, and _see._ See everything.

"What is it, whelp? Oh, you didn't tell her, did you?" A loud, hysteric cackle. "She's not aware you're _damaged _goods? You didn't tell her that she couldn't have her shag because I already had _mine_."

There was a loud crack as Bellatrix landed on a table that collapsed with the impact. Out of nowhere, a spell had hit her harshly in the ribs, sending her flying across the tent. Hermione faintly stoked her sore throat, breathing heavily as she suddenly had access to air again. She rolled to her side, crawling to take her wand and the bag that Lestrange had thrown aside before, and her eyes widened.

"Minerva."

The whisper was as hopeful and relieved as it was frightened. Her mentor was striding towards her, obviously raging, and she had no idea if the cold fury she saw flashing in emerald eyes was only directed towards Bellatrix.

She had heard and seen everything.

"Minerva, I —"

The brunette felt herself being lift up, not with the usual consideration her mentor shown. The hands which were normally steady and confident, were yet trembling with fear and rage. The student didn't move when her teacher quickly check for injuries, healing the most severe cuts with a flick of a wand.

"Are you —"

It was not often that the Headmistress' voice broke. It was not often one could witness her silenced by a strangled sob.

"Are you alright, Hermione?"

Distressed eyes sought hazel ones. The young Gryffindor wasn't sure what her saviour was referring to, and didn't know what to answer. Was she? Alright?

She jumped into Minerva's arms, taking her face between her hands and kissing her fervently. It wasn't really a kiss. It was a statement. The older witch soon felt the salty taste of tears, mixed with blood. Hermione was crying, clutching hysterically at her green robes, her mouth painfully melting against hers.

"I'm sorry," she eventually breathed, burying her face against a shoulder. "I'm so sorry…"

The Headmistress closed her eyes and gave a long weary sigh. She slowly stepped back a bit, a hand lifting the girl's chin, to meet her gaze.

"I'm here," she simply said. "I'll always be."

There was movement where Bellatrix had abruptly landed. Movement and a long, painful moan.

"Now go, find Harry and Ron and…" She looked hesitant for a second, biting her lip… and crashed her mouth against Hermione's, trying to capture every instant, to keep a vivid memory of that desperate, needy kiss. "Just be safe. I — I couldn't — if I lost you, I —"

"You'll never lose me," she breathed against the flushed, dancing lips, "because I'm _yours._"

* * *

_A.N: So? How was it? I must say Bellatrix is awfully fun to write hehe — 'guess there'll be some Bellamione fics in the near future ^^ — As always, I love to hear your thoughts on the story :)_


	12. Chapter 12

The Golden Trio landed harshly on the ground, their moaning figures surrounded by protective trees. The wedding scene was somehow in a blur for the three friends who were painfully standing up. Harry had lost Ginny in the crowd panic and looked more distressed than ever, not even noticing the large cut on his forehead, from which blood was spilling in heavy flow. Ron, completely plastered, had not dealt very well with the apparition, and was throwing up loudly, his hands grabbing a branch to steady his wobbly body. Hermione was shaking uncontrollably, from freezing, shock, and fear. Fear of what might have happened to Minerva after they left. The Headmistress was a talented duellist, and her background in Transfiguration was a notable advantage, but Bellatrix was more than a match.

"Harry, you're — you're bleeding."

She didn't recognise her voice. It felt like she was a stranger to her own body, a spectator watching herself stumble towards the boy who seemed to be about to faint. The wound was not that profound, but the slightest cut in the arch of the eyebrows always ended with a gush of blood. The brunette waved her wand, whispering a healing incantation. She had read a lot about healing spells, in anticipation of their little trip, but was far from an expert. Anyway, it seemed to have done the trick as it stopped bleeding and the skin was closed again.

"We need to pitch the tent," she said in a weary voice that was not becoming of her. "And wards." She glanced at Ron's doubled up silhouette and sighed. She took a small flask from her bag, before throwing it at Harry. "The tent's inside," she explained, as he gave her a questioning look. "Get ahead whilst I take care of Ron. We need to hurry."

The red head drank the potion reluctantly, with his usual moans and winces, but nodded in appreciation as it eased his pain quite rapidly.

"Just sit here while it takes effect." Hermione put him to lean against an old stump. "Here, some water and bread." He shook his head, like a child refusing to eat his vegetables. "Oh don't give me that look, if you hadn't acted like such a wino, you wouldn't be in that state," she retorted, irritated. "You idiotic dipsomaniac."

Harry was almost finished with putting the tent up, but they still needed to tidy up a bit and arrange the furnishings. He told her he'd take care of that, while she'd erect the magical wards to protect them from the snatchers. It lasted longer than she thought it would. She was not exhausted, she was _drained._ Both physically and mentally, she felt all strength had abandoned her. Her body still was aching from Bellatrix's devoted touch, throbbing with a shameful pain. Even Minerva's thoughtful words and gestures couldn't wash the humiliation off her. She felt besmirched, the scandal clinging to her like poison. She still smelt the raven-haired witch's toxic scent, disrupting her mind with swaying outlines, dancing in serpentine waves.

Ron was feeling better, for his part. Well, at least he could walk without falling every two steps that was an improvement. He helped a bit as well, dragging the camp beds on the sides and put the different items Hermione had brought in her bottomless bag in the shelves. They didn't have many spare clothes, and the comfort of their new house was quite rudimentary. Spartan, even.

"I never thought I'd say this but… I do miss Hogwarts' dormitories. Even with Neville's snoring," said the ginger, in a vain attempt to cheer up the mood.

They forced a chuckle. Hogwarts… Ron was attached to the magical school, but nothing in comparison of Harry or Hermione. For the dark-haired boy, Hogwarts was the home he'd never known before. The Dursleys were family in name only, whereas the friends he'd made there… They _were_ family. For the brunette who had always been an outcast in muggle schools, who had always felt different, Hogwarts was the first place she'd felt she belonged to. And then, there was McGonagall. Just at the thought, her heart sank in her chest.

"I'll make some tea," the red head sighed. His mother always made tea when people were upset.

Hermione didn't wait any longer to sink in the nearest armchair, tossing her shoes aside, eyes closed. _God it felt good to just stop one moment!_ She was so tired she didn't even have the strength to shiver anymore. The soothing embrace of the cold had made her forget about the pain, for she was grateful.

She heard a faint creak, feeling someone shift from one of the chair or the sofa that occupied the 'living room' of the tent. There was a muffled incantation and she felt a cold, wet towel softly brush her skin, cleaning it from the blood that had coagulated in brownish-burgundy stains. She tossed her head in gratitude, sighing heavily. She occasionally frowned a bit when the rough fabric chafed the wounded skin.

The brunette stiffened when she felt the caring hands stop abruptly, frozen in unease. Her eyes snapped open, questioning Harry whose green eyes were fixed with a mixture of shock and algid wrath on her arms. Brown eyes followed his gaze, noticing in passing the purple prints of Bellatrix's grip on her wrists. But what the boy was staring at was the carved word, still a bit reddish, on her left forearm._ Of course, I should have told them._

But she was to tired to even explain it, let alone arguing about why she had hidden it from her two best friends with whom she usually shared everything.

"A glamour charm will do," she merely said to answer the silent questions she saw storming in the green eyes. "You can't heal it," she added indifferently. "It's cursed."

"Hermione," the hoarse voice tried, but was cut off almost immediately by the girl's impatient whisper.

"Bellatrix. There's nothing you can do about it, so just stop beating yourself up with it already." She was about to say it was fine, but the word didn't quite hit close home. "It doesn't really hurt anymore," she said instead, closing her eyes. Sometimes, it tickled a bit or burnt, but she suspected the sensations to be the fruit of her to vivid imagination. She knew the boy was still in front of her, waiting for a story she wasn't really to narrate. "Please Harry, I'm exhausted. This can wait."

She never knew if he looked like he understood her, but when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

* * *

"Ready?"

"Ready."

They apparated, hand in hand, in a dark alley of muggle London where hardly anyone ever went by. They had checked it several times to be sure. The timeframe was critical: if they weren't at the right place at the right time, of if Mafalda, Reginald or Albert wasn't showing up like they had planed they would, the entire plan just fell through. Precision was the key to the success of their initiative.

That part of the plan went well, hopefully. They were in a hurry to hide the body without getting caught and changing in front of each other was a bit awkward, but at least, the first major difficulty was passed.

Getting into the Ministry wasn't as hard as they had expected it to be. Mafalda Hopkirk was either a pure-blood or a half-blood, the Trio had deduced, as she hadn't been sent to Azkaban, like most of the muggle-born. In addition to that, she occupied a high respected post in the Improper Use of Magic Office, which gave her some sort of security regarding the questioning of some employees, as it was now strongly linked to Umbridge's Muggle-Born Registration Commission. People nodded silently to her for greetings, and Hermione did the same, playing her part perfectly well. It was a bit harder for Ron who, as Reginald Cattermole, received less consideration from his peers. He was a maintenance employee, and was soon given quick orders to fix some raining problem in an office. Harry, for his part, hated to be in the body of the heartless man Runcorn seemed to be, which luckily gave him a dour expression that perfected his own impersonation.

It was Ron's wife Umbridge was interrogating. Well, _Cattermole's_ wife. Harry had escorted her, sitting her in the same uncomfortable chair he had found himself in when he was fifteen. The poor woman was terrified and stuttering hesitant answers to Dolores' unhealthy inquisitiveness. Hermione had to record everything, which made her nauseous.

This is when they stopped following the plan, assuming they still had one.

Not able to repress his rage while witnessing Umbridge's harsh and wicked interrogation, Harry had stunned her, just like that, out of nowhere. Hermione had quickly grabbed the locket whilst Ron was taking care of the two guards, hexes flying in every direction.

Then, all hell broke loose.

Dementors, hundreds of dementors began chasing them, their putrid breath caressing the necks of the fugitives, like Death's sweet embrace.

They were in the main hall, trying to go unnoticed, hoping to get swallowed by the crowd, when the polyjuice's effects had started to wear off. Hermione watched in pure horror as Harry's face was morphing back to normal and Ron shrinking. She had run her fingers through her hair, and feeling them unruly instead of neatly combed, she knew.

The two boys noticed the changes as well, quickening their pace and trying to hide their respective face with the collar of their jacket.

"_It's Harry! It's Harry Potter!"_

"_Get him! It's Potter!"_

"_Don't let them escape!"_

"_Move! MOVE!"_

They had _run._ Like they never had. Dodging the hexes thrown at them, if was a miracle none of the Trio had been hit. They had jumped in a fireplace, and…

And Ron had splinched. He was doubled up with excruciating pain on the floor, howling in agony as blood was gushing from his dislocated shoulder. Hermione had healed it the best she could, cracking up in hysteric sobs whilst doing so. But they had it, they had the horcrux.

* * *

Minerva was having a small breakfast in her office, a cup of tea and some ginger newts, nothing more. She couldn't. Since the wedding, she'd been on the verge of collapse, feeling the nervous breakdown taunting her well-renowned Olympian calm. That night, that fateful night, Bellatrix had been quite a match.

"_Don't be so angry, Minerva. If you ask kindly, I might even consider lending you the mudblood."_

The Headmistress had tried to chase the words from her memory, but they kept coming back at the most unexpected moments. She remembered her own screams, her wrath breaking her voice, making the black witch laugh even more with that high-pitched, loathed cackle of hers.

"_She. Is. Not. YOURS!"_

Bellatrix had dodged the hexes just on time, casting a protective charm, well aware of her former professor's skills in duelling.

"_Isn't she? If I remember correctly, I marked her as my very own pet."_

The scar, the one particular scar that would never heal.

"_And you'll find out I made her _mine_ in more than one way."_

Minerva put her cup down next to a pile of letters, sighing heavily. Bellatrix had managed to escape that night, hopefully not harming anyone else. She couldn't help but wonder if somehow, the Death Eater was right. If maybe, Hermione…

A small tapping on her window and she emerged from her rumination. A tall grey eagle owl was staring at her with bright orange eyes, hooting in a low cry. The Scottish witch let the bird in, taking her mail with a quick, distant glance at the papers. She almost dropped it.

Hermione's face, along with the one of the boys, was on the front page. 'Undesirable no. 1', the paper said. A rather copious amount of galleons was offered to anybody who'd catch them, and any person holding any valuable information regarding the Golden Trio was strongly encouraged to contact the Ministry as soon as possible. The three Gryffindors were said 'dangerous' and 'to be approached with great caution'. They had managed to infiltrate the Ministry, and severely bruised its ego. They wouldn't get away with it so easily.

"You have to be kidding me," she breathed faintly, turning the pages with shaking hands.

She felt her heart miss a beat when she read the lines concerning her beloved pupil. The brunette was facing more charges than her two friends, as she was no pure-blood like them. 'Muggle-born' was dancing under her picture, along with a large 'wanted'. The man-hunt had begun, and Azkaban was already waiting for the girl, wrote the Daily Prophet, in rather harsh terms.

"Minerva?"

She didn't respond, tossing the newspaper aside in a towering rage. She had saved the girl at the wedding, putting Harry's safety second even if her late friend had insisted on multiple times how critical it was that the boy remained alive, how it had to be him who killed Voldemort. And for what? How could Hermione possibly escape this time? How could she slip through the tightening net of the Ministry? She had no idea where she was, where she could be; no way to contact her and ensure she was safe, alright. If they put their hand on her, she wouldn't even get one of those rigged trials. She'd get sent to Azkaban directly, and —

"Minerva, whatever is the matter?"

It was a good thing Albus was dead already. Right now, the Transfiguration professor wanted nothing more than to hex him, to hex the man responsible for her suffering. Hadn't it been for him, she'd _never_ had dared to pursue this insane relationship with Hermione. Of course she'd be worried sick nonetheless right now, but it wouldn't be quite the same. Her emotions would be contained in the limits of the rights she had regarding her lover. She'd be able to repress everything and wear her usual strict mask. She'd be _Professor McGonagall_ and not that emotional _Minerva_.

"The matter?" she said in a strangled voice, turning to face his portrait, her eyes almost popping out of her skull. "You dare!"

The old painted wizard seemed a bit taken off by the unusual venom lacing his friend's words. He had seen, during the decades their friendship had lasted several outbursts of the witch, but no real anger. He had never seen her so profoundly angry at him, and yet worse, disappointed.

"Don't start," she warned him, "Don't even _think_ of starting this!" she said with asperity, no longer trying to contain the furious wrath swirling in her emerald eyes.

He obeyed, reluctantly, more because of a lack of response than because of actual compliance. Around him, other portraits were leaning in their respective frames, trying to get as much as they could from the argument.

"_You_ sent them on this suicide mission!" she fulminated, brandishing the newspaper with shaking hands. "The hunt is opened, the Ministry will track them down and there shall be no rest before they are caught!"

Albus knew why he hadn't explained his plan to Minerva. Even before her she recognised her endearment for the girl, she'd have gone completely mad if he'd told her the young Miss Granger, along with the two boys, would be on the run, seeking Voldemort's horcruxes. He was well aware the laws had changed, that now, muggle-borns were imprisoned for the crime of being born different. He knew it wouldn't take long before a warrant was held against Potter and his two friends. He knew as well that Hermione, coming from a muggle family and being the well-known brain behind the Trio, was the most in danger.

And that Minerva would never forgive him if something happened to her protégée.

"They knew what they signed up for, Minerva. I let a mission to Harry and…"

"They knew what they— Now _come on_! Like hell they would have refused!" Her nostrils flared ominously, and for a second, he thought she would throw one of her inkers at his frame. "They are _children_!"

"They aren't," he retorted, becoming annoyed himself. "Or if you really believe so, I suggest you reconsider your infatuation with Miss Granger."

She looked at him with disgust, her mouth opened in shock.

"Oh don't even bring her in the equation," she spat. "She's nothing to do with —"

"_You_ brought her, Minerva. You brought up the girl because she's all you really care about!"

"Haven't you seen the damn headlines? They want _her_. They'll chase her to send her to Azkaban," she thundered, wincing at the word. "The reward to whoever catches her is way higher than for Potter. And for Merlin's sake, she's already been caught once by Bellatrix! _Bellatrix_, Albus!"

"Those sacrifices are necessary. If we want to defeat Volde—"

"She's not _bait_!"

"Harry must be the one to defeat the Dark Lord; _He _is the Chosen One." He looked at her, pursing his lips. "Minerva, really I thought you knew the mission is what matters the most. You've yourself sacrificed many things during the first war and yet, all you seem to care about is the girl —"

"Because she's all that _matters_!" she screamed in frustration, her eyes widening as she realised what she'd just said.

She backed up, weak-kneed, almost falling against her large desk if it had not been for the firm grip of her hand on the side of it.

"Minerva…"

The voice was softer now, compassionate, even.

"She is," came the faint sigh. "She's all that matters now."

She took a deep breath, turning around to leave her quarters. She needed fresh air. This discussion, the atmosphere: it was smothering her. She needed to leave. To leave him, for the first time ever, him and his stupid use of people. It had gone too far. This time it wasn't her he had put at risk, but _Hermione_.

"If something happens to her, Albus," she whispered in an awfully calm voice, "I'll never forgive you."

* * *

Miles away from Hogwarts' secure castle, the Trio had set up their camp between tall dark trees, whose shadows seemed to dance on the rough fabric of the tent. The two boys were sleeping; Ron was still recovering from his injured shoulder, secretly liking the prospect of having his own battle scar, and Harry was drained, the adrenaline of their Ministry infiltration having worn off.

Hermione couldn't sleep.

Sitting on the floor, her back leaning against on of the poles that held their new house, she was playing absently with the locket. They had agreed to take turn to wear it. It was way too valuable to leave it lying around, and they had felt the poisonous effect it had on the bearer. It was harder to breathe when you had it around your neck, like suddenly your rib cage was too small for your lungs. It started with that sulky feeling, with a small oppression, with that strange feeling you couldn't quite put your finger on. The Trio had soon understood the locket revealed what was the worst in and for them.

The object in itself was a nice piece of jewellery. It slipped easily between fingers, the metal and the precious stone smooth under the touch. The brunette had wondered what it was made of and settled for amber. The Greeks believed it was formed by the sun, and thus, connected to the God Helios who was referred to as the _Awakener_. The myth said that when Helios's son Phaëton had been killed, his mourning sisters turned into trees, and their tears were the origin of the yellow fossilized resin. It would later be used as a protection talisman, which fitted the situation quite well. Even if it was related to muggle mythology, the young Gryffindor was sure both Salazar Slytherin and Voldemort had liked the association to the Gods.

She traced the large reptilian 'S' with her forefinger, almost expecting the snake to bite her. No spell was strong enough to break the precious locket. They had tried everything, in vain. Even the strongest potions, the strongest acids couldn't overcome the resin and the metal, protected by a magic they wouldn't even dream of knowing. What was the point, really? They could find all the horcruxes they wanted, they still had no way of destroying them. Maybe, if Minerva knew…

"Minerva…"

The name rolled on her tongue like a refreshing laugh. It was sweet, soothing. Where was the Headmistress, now? What had happened, after she had left the wedding? Surely, she would have felt it, deep inside, if her mentor had been…

The locket gleamed with a malignant light in her palm. Of course, Bellatrix wouldn't kill Minerva, how silly of her. The Transfiguration master was more than an apt duellist. She knew spells so powerful… _She_ was so powerful.

But so was Bellatrix, wasn't she? Hermione grunted. Even when the Death Eater wasn't right in front of her, she managed to taunt her mind. Her dark scent had poisoned, bewitched her brain. Without warning, the toxic perfume would suddenly come back in her mind, engulfing her into sour memories. Because she remembered every second passed under Bellatrix's particular care, every word the dark witch had said.

"_You'll be mine —"_

She had been, hers. The smell of sweet possession was still mocking her in lascivious, shameful nights.

"— _and mine only."_

Somehow, Hermione feared the dark witch might right with that assertion as well. What if she was?_ Her pet_, as she loved to whisper in her ear in heated passion, lust rolling from her devilish tongue to mesmerise her mind. She was marked as hers, after all. Like cattle. Like _property._

What if she had broken her beyond repair, and that even all the love she felt for her mentor could do nothing? What if love wasn't _enough_?

"I miss you."

Her voice was hollow, punctuated by swallowed tears. She clamped her fist on the locket, the metal embedding into her skin. She felt nothing.

"I miss you so much, Minerva."

* * *

_A.N: A special thank to Delilah Moon who kindly beta read this chapter. :) _


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